


hard to be brave (when you're alone in the dark)

by padmefuckingamidala



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Coming Out, Depression, Eric's still in college, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Shitty's at Harvard, Vomiting, a shit ton of baking, actor!Jack, eating dissorder, it's lit, jack can sing, retagging because people can’t read apparently, slight talk of sex, uncomfortable sex, unnegotiated sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-12-06 16:18:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11604276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padmefuckingamidala/pseuds/padmefuckingamidala
Summary: Eric gets kicked out for being gay and moves in with Shitty an Lardo. Actor Jack Zimmermann breaks his leg and is desperate to keep busy, so the sad new neighbor teaches him to bake.





	1. call me a name, kill me with words

The words just won’t come out, but then again, there’s nothing left to be said. Eric slung his heavy and final bag over his shoulder before walking towards the rusty pick-up that most likely wouldn’t go far. Everything was said and done, but still, he felt his tongue grow heavy. There’s more in him, more screaming and more crying and more lashing out. Rather than turn on his heel and look back--knowing his momma was watching him from the kitchen window, still paralyzed with hate and shock-- Eric threw the duffel into the passenger side seat, slammed the door, and made his way over to the driver’s side.

Coach wasn’t home. Thank the heavens he wasn’t home; with the way he cried after his momma’s reaction, he didn’t think he could’ve handled how coach reacted. It probably would have been worse. He could almost hear coach’s voice in the back of his head, screaming so loud that his face turned red and the corners of his mouth twitched. It took a lot to get coach mad, and it didn’t happen a lot, but when it did…

Sadie barked. She was the Bittle’s beloved bullmastiff, the ol’ girl that had been Eric’s friend since middle school. Eric gave her a glance and reached down to pet her. “Sadie, girl, it’s okay, it just--”

It was a shock, and Eric hadn’t been prepared for the lunge. She nipped at Eric’s hand. Blood was drawn; Sadie growled and stood her ground, baring her teeth at him. All Eric could do was cradle his hand and press his back against his truck. He hadn’t been this scared since he was shoved into a utility closet back in middle school.

“She don’t want a faggot in the house, either!” Suzanne Bittle yelled from the porch. Eric opened the door as soon as tears threatened to spill over, shaken from the use of the f-word again. “Sadie, come,” she called. The harsh tone was still in her voice. She continued to glare in her son’s direction; he could see her hateful look every time he glanced into the rear view mirror until he adjusted it. Eric let himself cry as soon as he turned out of the driveway.

He drove for hours. The radio wasn’t on as he continued on, road after road. Eric could only imagine the grand conversation that had happened or was happening. He pulled over in a diner parking lot, startled to realize it was dark out. Oh, God. It was dark and he had nowhere to go.

“Hey-a, Bitty! Didn’t expect ya to call this late. I’m kinda in the middle of something, can I call you back?”

Eric’s throat was thick with tears and guilt. He didn’t know what to do. He swallowed and tightened his hands against the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Of course Shitty would be busy. He was off living in an apartment with Lardo, working hard, attending Harvard for law. He was ready to hang up when a sob broke free.

“Bitty? Hey, hey, talk to me. Is this an emergency?”

“I don’t know where to go,” Eric admitted, voice shaking worse than his body. “Shits, I don’t--oh, Gosh, I have nowhere to go tonight.”

He could hear Lardo’s voice in the background, “What’s wrong, Shitty? Put him on speaker.”

Shitty’s voice sounded further away when he spoke. “What do you mean? What happened, dude?”

Eric took in a sharp breath before shutting off the engine. “I came out,” he cried. Tears streamed down his face no matter how hard he tried to blink them back. “I told my momma I was gay and she kicked me out--my own darn dog bit me and my momma called me a faggot, I--Shitty, I don’t know what to do.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m…” He looked up. “I don’t know.” He fumbled for a GPS as he spoke. “I’ll check, hold on. I just drove. I’ve been driving since the morning. She made me pack up and go.” He stared at the GPS, eyes squinting because of the bright screen. Part of him hoped that this was all a dream, and he’s wake up in Madison and his heart still in the closet.

He couldn’t believe that he actually came out. He knew what would happen. Eric heard stories about other kids that came out. They were kicked out and shunned, and sometimes it was worse. If their parents supported them, other family members turned a cold shoulder to all of them. Phone numbers were blocked, rumors were spread, whole neighborhoods turned against them; it was like a passive aggressive party, and everyone was invited except for them. Of course, getting kicked out of your house was horrible, but...

There was no “but”. Eric was alone in the world and with two words--I’m gay--he was cut off from his family. 

“That bitch,” Shitty scoffed under his breath, jerking Eric back to reality. “Can you make it up here? You’re staying with Lards and I.”

Eric let his head rest against the steering wheel. “I’m in Maryland,” he told them. “I can be in Boston in about eight hours.”

“You have to be tired. Is there any way you can get a motel for the night?”

As if on cue, Eric’s stomach growled. It was nine-thirty-four at night and he was hungry. Tired? Maybe a little, but he knew that once he got into bed he wouldn’t want to get out. If he floored it to Shitty and Lardo’s apartment, he could sleep for a day and not feel too bad about it.

“I’m going to get something to eat and then I’ll drive up,” he said. Eric wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Dude, you’re never a bother.”

Lardo finally broke her silence. “Are you going to be okay, Bitty? We can drive down and meet you at a motel. I don’t think you should be driving too late.”

Eric assured them both that he would be fine--hell, he’d be lucky and miss the traffic--and he’d see them in the morning. Probably a little too early for their tastes, but no one said anything. The call was ended, and Eric looked in his wallet. Of course. He had twenty damn dollars. 

There was his bank card, but he didn’t really want to touch that. He would need books for school, he’d have to pay rent, he’d probably need things to help him get a job. He was beyond stressed. He wiped his eyes again for good measure, and for the first time in nine hours, he realized how full his bladder was.

Eric ordered a cheap little basket of fries, ate, went to the restroom, and he was back in his truck, making his way to Boston.

///

“Look, Jack, it’s not the end of the world.”

Yeah, well, it felt like it, Jack thought as he poured himself a cup of coffee. His apartment, which was basically an over-glorified hotel room (being used for sleeping, maybe a snack, and then he was gone for work) was lonely. He wasn’t used to being awake this long and still sitting here. He should have been at practice.

“I feel like I’m stuck,” Jack told her. He winced as the hot coffee splashed a bit, hitting his fingers. Not the worst wound he’d received recently.

“Honey,” his mother’s voice said through the phone, “you did this with hockey. You’ll get through this little slump, you’ll be okay.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but with hockey I overdosed. This time, I just broke my damn leg. Maybe it’s a sign; every time I end up in the hospital, I should find a new career choice.”

Alicia Zimmermann sighed on the other line. “Your father and I will be down tomorrow. Think of this as a nice vacation. You said there was that new Italian place by your apartment, we can go there and catch up.”

Jack groaned. “I don’t know what I’m going to do in the meantime. Once you guys leave, I’ll still have a useless leg and I’ll still be out of a lead role.”

Jack, who had been a child actor in a few hit films, had been destined for hockey. Or, well, that was what he thought after he was pressured into the sport. The world could see it written in the stars: Jack Zimmermann was going to be the best hockey player. Better than anyone, and it took a toll on him.

He slowly moved away from acting to focus on hockey. The media saw this as a great opportunity for Jack to slim down. Everyone wanted to see the amazing child star slim down and come back for more movies! It was going to be amazing! He was going to look as good as his parents did and impress everyone. This talk didn’t do much for his anxiety or depression, but it was managed with a pill or two, or maybe even an occasional panic attack in the shower, and that was okay. It was manageable. He was fine.

Chubby Zimmermann died and was revived into a very handsome teen, starring in a film here and there. He was everyone’s middle school heart throb. But then he got serious about hockey, and there was so much stress on him to be better than his father and be better, be the best there could ever be, and he lost it. Pill after pill, a new found obsession with the way vodka numbs him to the point he couldn’t tell his hands were shaking until he looked at them, and a desperation to physically feel nothing. It was a recipe for disaster; at age seventeen, he found himself in the hospital with such a cruel burn in his throat, and his mother asleep in the chair next to him.

“I’m sorry I let this happen,” his father had said, clearly having not slept in a while. The bags under his eyes looked heavy, though not as heavy as Jack’s heart. “I should have saw the signs, Jack, I am so sorry.”

Jack closed his eyes and wished the numb feeling would come back.

Then he built himself back up. Hockey was out of the question; he gave up on it, breaking his stick and ruining every jersey he owned. He wanted nothing to do with it. With his head out of a hockey helmet, he turned back to all the movie offers he was given. Society wanted Jack back on the big screen, and by God, Jack Zimmermann was ready to be wanted again. The problem here, was that he needed an agent. Well, sort of--he kind of already had one, but they were just kind of the officiator in everything. Kind of? Oh, God, he was a mess. Zimmermann was a stray puppy when it came to things. But, still, he liked the idea of bouncing ideas off of other people and having someone represent him. He didn’t want someone to lead him down a wrong path again.

He ran into the perfect person at a party. The movie star was twenty-three at this point, with a lot more scandalous film offers and a distrust to the media. It was a formal event, leaving Jack in a suit to wander around and have a bad time, but it wasn’t all bad. After all, it was when he got his drink that he found the perfect person.

“Okay, not to be weird, but there’s some guy over there with a movie offer and it’s hella sexist, I heard the pitch in the bathroom, please, for the love of God, do not take this movie offer.”

Jack spun around to see a young man with a mustache standing there. “Pardon?”

The mustache-guy raised his hands defensively. “I’m sorry, I know you probably don’t care but there are way too many movies that involve incredibly sexist storylines, and this guy is a huge douche, so--”

“Wait, you figured all this out by a bathroom conversation?”

The man nodded. “Uh, yeah. He was bragging to his assistant, I guess. It’s pretty gross. Do you know how many films out there are produced by men, directed by men, and written by men? Most of them. Women are only put into films to gawk at, and that isn’t right. The whole film-scene isn’t exactly going to stop doing this until other people with more authority actually stop it from happening, ya know? And I figured, who better to step up than Jack Zimmermann himself? What are they gonna do, say no to a white man?”

“Are you an agent?”

He shook his head and grabbed a tiny cup of water from the table. “Nah. I’m just a college kid that’s probably gonna be a lawyer because it makes money and my dad’s a tight-ass.” The young man took a sip. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t swear around a celebrity. Where are my manners?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t mind it. You should be an agent, though.”

“I don’t know the first thing about that shit,” he told Jack. “And I’m kinda too deep in pre-law to back out.”

“There you are, Bentley.”

The young man straightened up at the sound of another voice. An older man approached with Jack’s parents on his trail. “I hope you were not making a fool of yourself in front of Mr. Zimmermann,” he said sharply, eyes cold.

“Not at all,” Jack butted in. “I was just impressed by his wits. He’s going to make an amazing lawyer, you must be very proud.”

The older man gave the smallest smile possible. “Yes, well, he’ll be taking over the firm one day when I’m passed, so hopefully he’ll continue to make me proud.” There was a bite behind his words, and Jack could tell that he was not, in fact, pleased with his son at all.

Jack was polite. He was raised to have good manners and be the best that he could be, even if it meant kissing the ass of a grouchy old man. “I don’t mean to be rude, but Bentley and I made dinner reservations and I really don’t want us to be late. I’m being considered for the role of a law student and he’d agreed to give me pointers. There weren’t any upcoming plans, were there?” When he noticed the look of disinterest on his face, he quickly added, “I didn’t really ask if he was free, I apologize. Auditioning jitters, I suppose.”

The older man was not phased. “Of course not, he wasn’t much help here, so that’s all well. Have fun you two. Bentley.”

“Sir?”

“Be a good guest.” The man turned and the Zimmermanns shot their son a look before walking off.

Bentley raised an eyebrow. “Ah, we didn’t--”

“Your old man’s a dick,” Jack muttered. “Let’s go get some pizza.”

Jack learned that Bentley Simeon Knight hated being called Bentley, so he went by his college nickname of Shitty. He was a sophomore at Samwell, which was where Alicia graduated from. Shitty played hockey, but they didn’t talk about it much. For once, hockey wasn’t important.

The next time Shitty saw Jack, it was a surprise. He was high out of his mind, smoking on the roof of the haus--the beloved frat house that honestly shouldn’t have standing--and spouting crazy, stoned-talk to Lardo, who was painting all along his bare arms and legs. Shitty looked a bit, well, ridiculous; he wore a pair of cut off shorts and what looked like a Beyonce crop top that could have used a wash.

He was so high. Oh, Lord, he was tripping and it was insane. That’s why he didn’t think it was actually Jack that was walking up to the haus door. Shocked, Shitty sat up. “Bruh, is that Jack Zimmermann?”

Lardo--who was only pleasantly buzzed because she wasn’t a complete animal--looked down at the man that was now looking back up at them. “Looks like Jack Zimmermann to me. Ya lost?”

“No, I’m looking for Shitty.”

Shitty sniffled. “Oh my God, Jack Zimmermann is personally requesting me. This is so romantic. Lards, am I dreaming?”

“Nope. Jack Zimmermann is actually here.”

“God bless Jack Zimmermann.”

“Jack fucking Zimmermann.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably. “Euh, you guys can stop saying my full name, it’s me. I hope it’s not a bad time. I was offered a movie deal and I wanted Shitty to read over it so I could make sure it’s not, uh, problematic.” It was stupid, but he enjoyed hearing Shitty’s opinions.

And, literally, they’ve been friends ever since. Shitty’s helped Jack throughout his movie decisions, and even through Jack’s musical career. He still acted in movies, of course, but once the world realized he could sing, Broadway dug their claws into him.

Until his most recent musical audition left him with a broken leg and a foot fracture. So that meant he didn’t get the role, he wouldn’t be in another movie for a while, he was stuck in his boring apartment and everything just fucking sucked.

“Jack, you’re going to be okay,” Alicia told him. “Accidents happen. Plus, when was the last time you’ve actually ever taken a vacation?”

Well… The only vacation he had was the couple of free days between gigs. Those days were usually spent catching up on all the sleep he’d missed or memorizing lines as he ran on the treadmill down at the local gym.

“Well,” Alicia started after his silence had answered for him, “think of this as a great opportunity! Do something like, oh, I don’t know, start a new book? Try painting? There’s so much you can do, think of it as a well deserved break.”

Jack sghed. “Okay, okay. I’ll think about a book.” He looked down at his coffee cup. “I’m gonna let you go, maybe I’ll find a book to read.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too. Bye.”

“Bye, honey.”

Jack set his phone down and stirred his coffee. He didn’t know how on earth he was going to survive this. After taking one sip of the steaming coffee, he hobbled over to the sink and poured it all down the drain. Jack needed a nap.

///

Eric, after taking a quick snooze in his truck, decided he should have gone inside. He was tired of looking at the inside of his truck. It would most likely take a few trips to get everything, but looking back, he realized that he didn’t have much with him. Clothes, shoes, any other personal items but it wasn’t a lot. Luckily, there were still things up at school, like his winter clothes and the things for his room. Eric pulled out the duffel bag before slamming the door behind him and turning quickly to walk into the apartment building.

In the lobby, he stopped and sent a text to Shitty. Hopefully they would be awake by now, or at least one of them would. He tapped anxiously at his phone. “C’mon,” he muttered, tapping harder than necessary. Right now, he was having such a hard time holding back tears. The prickling sensation was right at his waterline, giving the warning, and he just wanted to hide.

Eric didn’t want to sit in his truck anymore. It was only a matter of time before he would break down again, and though he knew it was one-hundred percent justified, he still felt ashamed about it. If he sat in his truck, people could see him. All he wanted to was lock himself in Shitty and Lardo’s apartment and cry.

He trusted Shitty and Lardo. They would have been so nice to him, sitting with him and letting him cry. That was how it’d go; Eric would cry, they’d drown the sorrow in ice cream, and then he’d work on picking up the pieces in his life. Job, college, all that.

“Euh… excuse me?”

Eric wiped his eyes quickly before turning to see a man with crutches and a scary looking boot on his left leg, looking a little embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t really bend down, but I dropped the envelope--”

“Oh! Here.” Eric bent down and picked it up, tucking it right back in his hand. “That must be one hell of a break if you gotta wear that thing.” He tried his hardest to keep his voice steady; he wasn’t going to lose his chill in front of a complete stranger.

The man gave a small laugh. “Yeah, I guess my good luck was bound to wear off sometime.”

Eric glanced at his phone. No text back. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “It’s a great time to read a book, at least,” he offered politely. “Just try not to drop the book, that might cause a bit of a problem.”

The joke came out a bit dry, yet it earned him another laugh. “Of course.” There as a small pause, and the awkwardness was starting to seep in. “Are, uh, you locked out or something?”

Eric shook his head. “Nah, not quite. I’m just here to see my friends, but I don’t think they’re awake yet. And I have no idea where their apartment is, so that’s a problem. Hey, at least I found the building, so that’s a good start.”

“Who’re you here to visit?”

Well, this was making things even more awkward than intended. How do you look a stranger in the face and give them your friend’s name? Easily, actually, unless your friend’s name is Shitty. “I--uh--his name is kind of… odd? I don’t know how to explain--”

The man nodded. “Okay, so you’re here to see Shitty.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he started, “if you don’t mind following somebody slow, I can lead you up.”

Eric resisted the urge to wipe his eyes, choosing to instead blink back the tears the best he could. “Oh, no, I don’t want you to go out of your way, especially on a broken leg--”

“I’m friends with Shitty. He’s my neighbor, actually, so I pass his door on the way up.”

“As long as it’s not a bother.”

Eric followed him to the elevator. The silence set in again, and the tears started prickling at his waterline. He blinked rapidly and tried to swallow the guilt that lumped in his throat before the man noticed, but things weren’t exactly going Eric’s way.

“Are you okay? I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?” he blurted out. “I’m really sorry--I can get Shitty instead, if you just want to wait here? I understand I’m a stranger and all, I--”

“It’s not you,” Eric sniffled, wiping his eyes now that there was no hiding the tears. “I’m sorry. Something awful just happened and I’m just trying to get into Shitty’s apartment so I can breakdown in peace.” Of course. Of fucking course Eric Bittle actually said that to someone. Why on earth would he think that was an okay thing to do? Mentally kicking himself as he looked down, he prayed the man wouldn’t have anything more to say about it. 

He fished into his pocket. “Okay, then I’ll just let you in instead of knocking.” He pulled out a key and handed it to Eric. “Just tell them that Jack gave you the key, okay?”

Eric nodded, clutching on to the key as if it was his lifeline.

“Are you okay with me taking you--”

Eric nodded again. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Jack exited the elevator first, wobbling down the hallway as fast a he could. It wasn’t fast by any means, Eric easily kept up, but the struggle was clear. “It’s right down here, I won’t try to keep you out too long.”

Honestly, Eric was relieved that he bumped into Jack. The tears were starting to make his eyes itch, but he managed to keep it together until Jack paused momentarily and jerked his head towards door four-oh-two. “Here it is,” Jack told Eric and disappeared into four-oh-three.

Eric unlocked the door, walked in, and let it slam behind him before the waterworks started.


	2. a walking travesty

Jack was going to lose his damn mind if he spend another minute pent up in his apartment. Usually he’d go over to Shitty’s and they’d hang out or something, but the sad little blond guy was there, probably sobbing his eyes out, and he wasn’t going to be the type of guy to intrude on that.

There were millions of books he could have read. Jack loved reading, but once he was diving into project after project, there was no room in his schedule to even consider picking up a book. He stood in the guest room that was more of an unused home office, leafing through books. Endless covers and endless authors flashed before him. There were a lot of historical non-fiction books. There were few books that touched into non-fiction, but then again, he was super rich and he could just buy some more books.

Of course! How hard could that be? With the tap of a button he could instantly buy digital books and not have to worry about the lack of space on his bookcase.

Knitting. He had some knitting needles and a lot of yarn from when his mother last visited, and he decided to finally put them to good use. He bought three knitting books for beginners and failed miserably for half an hour, making nothing but blobs out of yarn. He threw them aside before realizing, fuck, I can’t pick those up, and groaned in defeat.

Jack loved history. He bought a book on World War II and finished it in an hour and twenty-three minutes. To be fair, he already knew a lot and was able to skip some chapters, but it was a nice read nonetheless. He left a nice review on amazon about the book and searched for another. He could have learned about something else, but, well, he wanted to keep busy for a longer period of time.

Somehow, despite knowing nothing about how to use a kitchen in general, he stumbled across a cookbook and decided he could try to make himself a cherry tart. He had cherries, eggs, flour, probably some sugar for when his mom visited and had coffee. That was probably enough, right?

He never really knew how to cook or bake, or even prepare anything that actually tasted good for himself. He saw a nutritionist that kept him in line and told him what he could or couldn’t eat.

“It’s okay to have a cheat day,” Callie told him. “I mean, you can’t just eat bland chicken forever.”

“The more bland chicken I eat, the better shape I’m in. The better shape I’m in, the better my roles.”

And that was that. Though, my God, what kind of person could tolerate bland chicken for that long? Yes, Jack was pretty goddamn white, but his chicken was so bland that it would have made other white people upset. 

The one person that always knew how to prepare food was Jack’s dad. Bad Bob Zimmermann was just as amazing off the ice as he was on it. His skill at making food could probably make Gordon Ramsay proud. Jack could remember sitting up on the counter (before he’d gained a lot of weight and was afraid to let him dad lift him up there--he complained that he might break the countertop, despite his father’s disagreements) and watching him make chicken tenders.

Before the hockey craze consumed him, Jack was a very picky eater. They were tired of giving him store-bought chicken nuggets and boxed macaroni and cheese, so Bad Bob took to the kitchen and prepared a meal fit for his only son.

He sliced the chicken into tenders, dunked them in egg, rolled them in cracker crumbs, and fried them in a little butter and a little oil.

《You don’t put anything on them until they’re in the pan,》 Bob said to his son, doubting he’d actually understand. He talked a little louder than usual, over the sound of the chicken sizzling and popping in the pan. 《Just the crackers and such. Then, you sprinkle them with pepper and seasoning salt.》

《Why is it called seasoning salt?》 Jack asked. “What season is it?》

《Honestly, Jack, I have no clue. That is a dumb name, though, isn’t it?》

Jack nodded and continued to watch intently.

Food had played a huge role in Jack’s life. It was soothing at first, whether it was watching his father or actually eating, but everything turned sour. Jack bulked up, found himself in turmoil over his weight. He could sometimes hear his mother down the hall on the phone, chewing out some journalist that had picked at his weight.

Then, he started to slim down. At the time, Jack had his eyes on hockey, so health was crucial. His parents were supportive, of course, but the weight was coming off way too fast.

Jack was spending way too much time at the gym. There were times he nearly passed out, but after the first twenty pounds came off, he was encouraged to push himself harder.

“He’s been down there for hours, Bobby,” Alicia murmured. “I don’t… I don’t like where this could be heading.”

Bob just looked down at the carrots he was slicing and tried not to panic. The panic didn’t come until later.

At this point in time, Jack was twelve. He was slim and had the bluest eyes in the world, so of course he was going to attract a lot of attention. Luckily, most of it was positive. He had found a small role in another film and everyone loved this blue-eyed wonder.

Bob had found him hovered over the toilet after dinner, shoving his fingers down his throat. Angry, Bob shoved his son away and slammed the toilet seat closed. 《What the hell do you think you’re doing?》

Jack wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked up at his father. The boy was so confused at his father’s sudden burst of anger; Bob was never like that off the ice, at least not towards Jack. 《Papa, I don’t--why are you so angry?》

Bob pointed to the toilet and glared at Jack. 《Don’t play dumb! Why were you doing that?》

Afraid, he raised his hands in defense. 《I learned it from Kenny! He said it helps you keep the weight off, I’m just trying to make sure I don’t get fat again.》 He pushed himself back against the wall and scrambled to his feet. 《Maman said a lot of girls did this to stay skinny when she was a model, too. It’s--》 Fear took over, still in shock of his father’s outburst, and he switched to English. “Mom!”

“Stop screaming like a child,” Bob hissed. “This isn’t a game, it’s d--”

“Mom!”

“Jack, for fuck’s sake will you--”

“MOM!”

Alicia walked in right as Jack yelled out again, rounding the corner with wide eyes. “What’s going on? Why is everyone screaming?”

Bob pointed a finger in Jack’s direction. “Ask your son.”

Somebody give this boy an Oscar. Well, then again, despite the over dramatic way he ran to his mother, he was still legitimately scared out of his mind. He was never yelled at like that before. Not once, not even as a young kid. He tucked his chin in his mother’s elbow and stared at his father with teary eyes. “I was just doing what you and Kenny told me about so I didn’t gain more weight, and he just shoved me.”

“Look,” Bob sighed, annoyed, “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I’m sorry, Jack, I love you and I would never hurt you. But tell your mother what you were doing.”

Alicia smoothed down Jack’s hair as she held him close. “What were you doing, honey?”

Jack sniffled. “Papa shouldn’t get upset about it. Kenny does it all the time and you said that when you first started modeling, girls did it all the time--”

“He was forcing himself to vomit,” Bob interrupted. “Jack, you can’t do that. It’s horrible for your body.”

Alicia grabbed his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Jack, why would you do that?”

“So I don’t get fat again,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know it was that bad. I mean, Kent said--”

“You can’t always rely on what your friends say,” Alicia murmured. “How many times have you done this?”

She could tell that Jack didn’t want to look at her anymore. His eyes got watery and he stared at her shoulders instead of her eyes. “Just a few times. I only did it once a day, I’m not--”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Bob said quickly. “Your mother and I love you very much, Jack, and if we ever lost you…” The rest of the words were left hanging in the air. Alicia wrapped her arms tightly around her son and stared at Bob. They both were crying, silent, terrified at their son’s fear of gaining weight and how it was escalating.

After that incident, Jack went back to being a picky eater. He only wanted vegetables and a good source of protein. He ate on a schedule and worked his body to near exhaustion.

He had to be better than that; with the world watching him with intense eyes, he knew he had to keep all of his ducks in a row. One mistake, one small fuck-up, and he would be thrown to the wolves. Jack counted his calories and lied to anyone that asked if he was alright.

“I feel comfortable in my body,” he lied.

“I don’t feel depressed at all,” he lied.

“I’m straight,” he lied.

Lies continued to pile up until finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, and the world he tried so hard to build came crashing down around him.

///

Eric had stopped crying enough to notice the engagement ring on Lardo’s left hand. It was very tiny, probably a thrift store find by the way it seemed a bit older. The diamond--well, whatever it was-- was small and round, probably as to not get in the way of Lardo’s painting. Understandable. But Eric was shocked. This was the first time realizing that she was engaged.

“Do you need to cry some more?” Shitty asked. “We took today off, so we have absolutely nothing to do except for love you, you glorious little baker, you.”

Eric swallowed the lump in his throat and wiped his eyes. “When did you propose?”

Lardo didn’t like this conversation. She knew Bitty was going to beat himself up over it, and she honestly didn’t mind at all. Shitty proposed wearing his Wonder Woman boxers, for Christ’s sake, everything was perfectly imperfect. “Bitty, that doesn’t really m--”

Shitty cut in with, “Hey, Bitty, look, it’s--uh, well--”

“It’s not really an--”

“Weddings count more than the actual engagement process, you know--”

Eric frowned. “You… you were proposing last night when I called, weren’t you?”

Lardo sighed when Shitty broke down and admitted the truth. “Yes, you did. But that’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Eric sniffled. “Y’all have a life outside of me and the others and I just barged right back in--”

Lardo was quick to grab Bitty’s hands. “Eric, Bitty, you are literally my best friend. You have helped me throughout so much, and I know you’ve done the same for Shits. You’re just as important to me as he is, and sure, you called during his proposal, but you needed us. Please don’t ever feel horrible about reaching out to one of us.”

Still, the guilt continued to consume him. His hands went limp in Lardo’s and the fake smile he plastered on his face quickly crumbled away into the same, dead expression he wore since he walked through those doors.

The shift in atmosphere caused Shitty to begin babbling on about the apartment--he tried pulling Bitty into an apartment tour, excited about having another roomie, but he quickly stopped when he saw Eric was sobbing a bit too hard for a tour-- and Lardo grabbed a take-out menu from the coffee table instantly.

“So, Lard’s and I are sharing a room so you get the other room--oh, and since I’m an adult, we have a pretty cool credit card! So Christmas can come early, cos we’ll buy you a nice Beyonce poster and some other thingies for you to make it your home. Awesome, huh?”

Eric wiped his eyes. “I have a credit card, Shitty, I’m not going to make y’all buy me things.”

“We gotta make sure you’re all cozy in your room, bro,” Shitty said eagerly. “Oh! Since we’re all roomies now, can we have a roomie night? I think Thursday would be a great designated day for that,” he continued, seemingly calculating everything in his head. “Okay, so I’m thinking movie, pizza, and maybe we could get some froyo? Ooh, Bitty, can you make froyo? Oh, fuck, dude, I didn’t even show you the kitchen--”

“I’m not really in the mood right now, Shitty,” Eric mumbled. He stood up, shoulders forward and drooped, almost as if he was trying to fold himself up into a smaller version of himself. “I think I’m gonna go take a nap, okay?”

Shitty stopped instantly. “Yeah, okay. First door on the left. Take as long as you need.”

Before he went, he pulled the key out of his pocket and set it gently on the small end table, as if the slightest cling would upset the balance of the world. “This is Jack’s key. I saw him down in the lobby. He was very kind, he let me take it so I could get in.” Without another word, he sulked out of the room. It took him a while, with the dead weight of sadness breaking his back, but eventually, he had managed to drag himself and a duffel bag into his new room

It was nice, a bit bland. He college dorm had the same feel for about three days, but slowly went away after twenty minutes of crying, three hours on pinterest, and a day of hard work. He transformed his room into something that felt okay and it grew on him as the year went by.

There was always the possibility that the Boston apartment would never be home. Deep down, Eric was a Georgia boy. He had a nice community, went to church, knew a lot of his mother’s friends and kind of (long story) joined an old women’s book club. His heart would always be down in Georgia despite the hatred he’d faced and the backlash, and even the hiding he’d endured.

In times like this, Bitty would have called his mom. He’d cry into his phone and she’d soothe him with her soft words. But there were no soft words left. 

“My son ain’t no faggot,” she’d yelled at him.

“Momma, please, wait, let me explain--”

A plate shattered against the floor, and Eric took that as a sign to back away. Suzanne Bittle had rage in her eyes and a fire burning in her soul, charing every last ounce of love she had for that boy. “You best get away from me, Dicky.”

“I’m not sick, I’m not a sinner, please--”

“Do you know what the neighbors are gonna say?” she sobbed, pointing any angry pink finger in his direction. “The whole family, Christ, the whole town is gonna think we did something to you! You’re putting our lives at stake, Dicky!”

Eric ignored the pang in his chest. “They’re bigots, momma, they’re wrong.”

“You’re the one that’s all wrong,” she huffed. “I raised you better than this.”

“I can’t stay here if you expect me to be someone I’m not,” he shot back at her. “I’m gay, momma, there’s no changing that.”

There was no hesitation at all. “Then leave,” she spat. “Go live with your faggot friends up north, and don’t you dare come crawling back to me.” She took a breath. “Your daddy, your grandmother--nobody ain’t gonna want you here if you’re not gonna change.”

And that was it. Eric was packed in twenty minutes and he left without a hug--something he never done before. 

He felt like an abandoned puppy; he pressed his face into the fluffy pillow with enough force, hoping to muffle his cries.

///

Eric was a lot of things. He was blond, a bit feminine, a dreamer, a baker, cute, and very, very gay. He looked as if he had the personality of a freshly pressed flower, but deep down, he was not to be tested. There were times he had a fire in his soul just like his momma, and he would snap at anyone that pushed him too hard.

The fire had seemingly went out, though, as Bitty was nothing but exhausted. He sat in his room for two days and just saulked. Lardo and Shitty left for work or class and came back to find him tucked away in his room, still lying on his side, facing the little window above the bed. 

“We have to get him out a bit,” Lardo told her fiance, waiting for her leftover pizza to heat up. “We can send him grocery shopping, you think that’ll be okay? We can just give him my car and…”

Shitty ran a hand through his hair as he let out a sigh. It was partial frustration at that--his hair was starting to grow out again, and he wasn’t sure whether or not he should let Lardo cut it again--but mostly frustration at the situation in itself.

He had no idea what Bitty could have felt like at this point in time. Eric came with a duffel and a suitcase, having to leave most of his things behind in Georgia, the most important things being his family. If Shitty was thrown out of his family today, he wouldn’t bat an eyelash at it; his father’s side was filled with stuck-up pricks and, well, his mother was lovely but barely around as it was, so he didn’t know how to support Bitty. Bitty was close with his family; his mother was sweet (well, until… ya know) and caring (again, ya know) and the Bittle’s were a tight-knit family. They could have been in a commercial depicting the perfect family. Now that the huge piece of Bitty’s life that was his only constant came crashing down, he was lost.

There were his friends at Samwell, of course. Shitty and Lardo had Bitty’s back. They would do anything for him, and they both knew that Bitty would do the same for them. But it stung both of them that they couldn’t really help him out or give him the comfort he needed.

He was shaken from his thoughts as the microwave beeped, and Lardo turned to grab her pizza. He responded with, “Well, we haven’t grabbed the mail in a few days, think we can send him down?”

Lardo shrugged, but then nodded. “Yeah, that seems like a first good step.”

So when Eric came out to prepare breakfast, they gave him the task of riding down and grabbing the mail. Easy as that. He pulled on his shoes and tried to push away any negative feelings.

“Oh, and we got something for you!” Shitty fished into his pocket and retrieved a key, pressing it into Bitty’s hand. “Because this if your home now, too, so you should have a key.”

Eric accepted the key wordlessly and made his way down to the lobby.

Now, just because he was sad--depressed, more like, didn’t mean that he was spineless. No, he was still stubborn and he loved himself (for the most part) and all it took was one person to reignite the flame in his soul. Eric Bittle was not to be tested.

“Hey, what’s it like being queer?”

Eric froze in place, biting down on his lip a little too hard. A million things ran through his mind; he could hear his mother’s tone in the girl’s voice as she spat out ‘queer’. Word for word, easily, it could have been interpreted as a simple question. Harmless. Though, of course, there was some debate about the use of the word ‘queer’, but the real problem was the bite in her voice. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jack stiffen too, hands curled hard around his crutches.

Jack turned stiffly (and Eric snuck a little glance) at a girl leaning against the wall, offering a bored expression. “Pardon?” he asked, struggling to talk above a whisper. He looked too good to be true. Pale skin, obvious bed head, and a body that allowed him to rock a pair of boring, grey sweatpants. A literal god that possibly rolled out of bed ten minutes prior. He was tall, had at least six inches on this girl, yet he cowered as if he was three and she was the boogey monster. 

The girl rolled her eyes. “You’re the queer, right? The one on the fourth floor?” She waited for him to answer, but continued when the silence started to set in. “I was just wondering, geez, no need to get your panties in a twist.”

Jack reached for his mailbox and tried to hold back a sigh. Bitty made his way across the room slowly, in hopes that the girl would stop with her rude questions. He watched as Jack’s fingers trembled a bit struggling to pull the mail out casually and remain somewhat confident. Bitty’s presence, however, made no difference in the young woman’s attitude, and she continued on, as if he wasn’t even there.

“I just wondered what it was like to be queer,” she dragged on, raising an eyebrow. “Like, so many people hate you. That kinda sucks.”

“There’s really not much to talk about,” Jack answered breathlessly. Out of the corner of his eye, Eric swear he saw Jack glance at him with blue, pleading eyes. Of course, anyone in that situation would be looking for an escape. The door to the mailbox closed a little harsher than intended, and Jack was given to other choice but to face the girl again.

The girl huffed a small, angry laugh. “Jesus, do all you fags have a stick up your ass?”

Bitty turned at the harsh word (shocking Jack in the process). “You’re welcome to start minding your own damn business any damn time. He’s not obligated to answer any of your dumbass, rude questions, okay? Just go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and, I dunno, attempt to comprehend how awful you are?”

“Who are you, his twink boyfriend?”

“And who are you? Just some girl that’s uglier than a Pringle’s can?”

“There’s no need to be a dick, I was just asking--”

“You were just asking completely, inappropriate and personal questions, yes, I’ve been here long enough to realize what you’re doing, honey. Now if you wouldn’t mind, kindly just, I dunno, fuck off?”

She rolled her eyes and pushed herself off of the wall with a hushed, “what the fuck ever,” and disappeared towards the elevator.

“You didn’t have to--”

“Of course I did,” Eric mumbled. He wanted to say more. He wanted to look at Jack and tell him that sometimes, people were complete assholes and they weren’t worth any aggravation. They weren’t worth the tears, the anxiety, or the time. But Jack probably knew that. Here was Bitty, a small, feminine, blonde boy that wanted to tell Jack, who honestly looked like he could rip a tree in half, to keep his chin up.

But Jack probably wasn’t as weak as he was. And that’s how Bitty viewed himself: weak. He’d been crying his eyes out all because he lost his family. There were kids out there that had it worse! Orphans, abused children, kids that were kidnapped, kids that were neglected… It wasn’t the end of the world for Bitty, not at all, and he should have been thankful that he had it pretty good.

Bitty jerked away from him. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, voice cracking. He grabbed the mail tight in his hands and bolted towards the elevator. He left Jack standing there with a red face and glassy eyes, as well as a huge sigh of relief.

///

The first time Jack had heard the word faggot, he was sitting on the stairs, listening to his parents scream at each other. Six years old might have been too young, especially for the context it was in, and it had definitely left a scar or two and held him back from self acceptance.

“You shouldn’t hold him back from who he is, Bob, and you know it!”

“Oh, really? You think he’s old enough to know what he is?”

“Don’t say it like that! He isn’t just a thing, he’s a person. And we don’t know who he’ll turn out to be. He could love anyone, and that isn’t for us to judge. We’re his parents, we have to support him.”

“You make it sound mandatory--”

“I’m going to support him unless someone else is hurting because of it, now goddammit, listen to me! Who cares what the magazines say, who cares what the press wants to think. Jack’s perfect, and those rumors are disgusting and I don’t want them to make Jack feel ashamed about any part of who he is.”

“Jesus christ, Alicia, everyone thinks our boy’s a faggot!”

There was a loud bang, and Jack jumped in his place, fingers gripping onto the railing to keep him from falling.

Alicia’s voice was threatening, and sent shivers down Jack’s spine. “Don’t you ever fucking say that word again, do you hear me? If I so much as hear you say that around him or even in this house, I will leave you, and I will take him with me. All he did was hug one of his friends. It’s the media that spun it out of control and decided to oversexualize a six-year-old boy. We have no idea who he will grow up to be, but I will not let your hateful tongue make him doubt himself. Do you understand?”

There was silence afterwards. Either a nod or no answer was given because Alicia walked out of the room and headed right for the stairs. Finding your son eavesdropping isn’t scary until you realized he would probably feel guilty and believe it was because he’d done something wrong. (Which was essentially what just happened, and Jack wasn’t quick enough to make up a story, so he just cried and asked his mom if he was in trouble and if they were going to leave because of him.)

“Nothing's your fault,” Alicia murmured. “The argument your father and I had was just…” She sighed, and held out her hand. Jack took her hands carefully, and the two of them walked up the stairs together, towards Jack’s room. “C’mon, my darling, let’s have a talk.”

Once Jack was sitting on his bed, fiddling nervously with his fingers, Alicia sat down beside him and offered a slight smile. “Jack, can I talk to you like a grown-up?”

Jack nodded.

“Perfect.” She smiled. “The argument your father and I had was because your father was acting like a asshole. That’s it.”

Jack’s eyebrows drew together. “Maman? Is… that word… the one you told papa not to say… am I that word?”

Alicia shook her head very hard. “No, no, no, you’re not that word at all.” She held his hands gentle in her own. “What he said was a very rude word, and no matter what, you should never, ever call somebody that. Ever. You know how I called papa an asshole?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s a bad word, but it’s okay. You’re gonna grow up and say bad words, and one day, you’ll call somebody an asshole, Jack. And whatever, sometimes people are assholes.”

“But--”

“The word that papa said…” She pondered her words. “Jack, sometimes, love is frowned upon. And people act very mean and try to tell people that their love is wrong.”

“Why is it wrong, maman?”

“It’s not,” she said softly. “Jack, love is not wrong. People are just mean. The word your father used is meant to hurt people’s feelings. I don’t want you to say things like that, okay? To yourself or anybody else.”

He didn’t like the word, and he didn’t know how to react around it. Jack, snapping himself out of his past, pushed open his apartment door and forced himself to smile at his parents.

Alicia was on the couch with a cup of tea in her hands. She returned the smile and moved to make room for her son. “Jack! We were worried you fell or got lost.”

Jack shook his head and set his mail on the counter, next to where his father was preparing lunch. “No, maman, just got caught up. I saw the boy from before. The blonde one, I mean, the one I told you about last night?”

“Oh?” She waited, patient.

“He yelled at a girl for me.”

“What?”

“She called me a faggot.” Jack tried to act nonchalant about it, casual, but Alicia’s eyes were staring into his soul. “He yelled at her. Then I think he left crying, but I really appreciated it. He’s the one that’s staying with Shitty.”

Alicia’s face crumpled in confusion. “Why was he crying?”

“He was crying the first day, too. I don’t know what happened.”

“Fuck!” Bob turned around with a faux-angry look on his face. “Jack, why don’t you have any eggs? What are you doing with your life?”

“Eating oatmeal…?” Well, Jack was eating eggs, but once he broke his leg, he had no desire to go to the grocery store and buy more, so he ate some oatmeal.

“You hate oatmeal.”

Jack did. He despised it, but he wasn’t ready to attempt grocery shopping.

Bob sighed. Clearly his son was a mess, but neither of them commented on it. “You said Shitty’s next door, right? I’m just going over there and seeing if he has any.”

“Might not be a good idea,”Alicia said. “Didn’t you hear Jack? The blonde boy is over there crying.”

“Maman--”

“Well, Shitty would be offended if I was in town and didn’t stop by, so as a father figure and an honorary bro, I think I actually have to go over there.” Bob wiped his hands of on his jeans and made his way out Jack’s door.

Alicia gave a soft sigh, a grin still on her face. “He listens well. Now I know where you get it.”

Jack scoffed, “Maman,” but the same little grin tugged at his lips.


	3. give me a sense of direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn. It's been thirteen thousand years.  
> Sorry for the long wait, and many thanks for reading!

Everything started with Lardo yelling, “Shits! Bobby’s here!”

Shitty had never run so fast in his life. In what seemed like a matter of seconds, Shitty had ran clear from the bathroom, almost knocked Eric over, and was in the arms of some older man. “Bobby, just in time! I thought I was gonna have to pay an international calling fee, I have great news!”

Eric sat down on the couch and wiped his eyes quickly. He was done crying, he had to be. He was tired of being the crybaby. His friends assured him that it wasn’t a problem, as he’d just basically lost his entire family just a few days ago, but it shouldn’t have hurt him as much as it did. He was tired of being sad about it. He finally got to be himself openly, and that was great! He felt great! (Kind of!) Nothing should have bothered him!

“And this news wouldn’t have anything to do with the ring on Lardo’s finger, would it?”

Shitty groaned dramatically, detaching himself from the older man. “You’re ruining all the fun, daddy-o.”

“Sorry,” he said with a laugh. The man had more wrinkles around his eye than anything, and most of them were probably from smiling. He seemed nice, held himself in such a well presentable manner.

“What brings you here? I heard Jack broke his leg, are you back to babysitting?” Lardo was pulling the man into the living room, and all Bitty could do was wonder if he could make it back to his room without anyone noticing. Would that be rude? Eric bit his lip in thought, only to be brought back to reality as Lardo pushed the man to sit on the couch, only one cushion away from him.

“We’re just visiting,” he said, then turned to smile at Bitty. “I don’t believe I’ve met you before. I’m Bob, it’s nice to meet you!”

“Eric,” he mumbled, holding out a hand to shake. They shook, smiled politely, and then Bob made himself comfortable. It was obvious that he’d been here before; Lardo gathered around eagerly, and Bitty wanted nothing more than to hide.

“If we would have known you were in town, we’d have scraped together some extra moolah and crashed your dinner plans!” Shitty yelled from the kitchen, which was only separated by a small island and two stools.

“We don’t even need to go out to dinner anymore,” Lardo pointed out, “Bitty here is amazing in the kitchen. Gordon Ramsay got nothin’ on him.”

“In fact, you have to try this pie! He made the most amazing maple apple pie, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever shoved in my mouth!” The fridge opened with a smack, the conversation continued on without him.

“How’s the rent treating you?” Bob asked, smile fading a bit. He spoke as if he was their father, but Bitty knew he wasn’t. He’d met Shitty’s father, and Lardo’s mother was single, so this man could have been a sugar daddy for all he knew. They loved him, though, as if he was their best friend. “Do you need me to write a check?”

“Bob, you don’t have to give us money every time you come,” Lardo almost scolded. “We appreciate it, really, but you don’t have to. We can get by.”

The man still seemed unsure. “You don’t have to, though. You two work very hard, and I know you’re not making enough money as you’d like. I’d love to help out, you know that.”

Lardo nodded. “We’ll be fine. Plus, now that we know you’re here, we’ll probably make you treat us to take-out. Oh, is Ali here?”

“Yes, she’s with Jack right now. We should order some Chinese takeout, all six of us. You know, the little place a few minutes away is my absolute favorite, but I always forget the name. We’d probably have to eat over here. Jack’s apartment is so bare it looks like no one even lives there.” Bob looked over at Eric. “And just like that, it’s as if I’ve lost my manners. So, Eric, are you visiting?”

“Bitty’s staying with us,” Shitty said firmly, coming back with a plate of pie and a fork for Bob. “He’s our third roomie now.”

“I thought it was only a two-room--”

“We’re engaged, we can share a room,” Lardo said. Well, it wasn’t like they weren’t already sharing a room. The two lovers exchanged a look before breaking to settle down beside each other.

Bob took the plate from Shitty. “Well, if it ever gets too cramped, Jack has an extra room, I’m sure he’d love to have the company. Maybe it won’t look so empty anymore.” He took a bite of the pie, and his eyes grew wide. Pupils dilated, mouth barely parted, a soft ‘o’ as if he was going through a life-changing experience. He said nothing. Bitty watched nervously as Bob moved quickly, the fork clinking against the plate as it tore off an unholy amount of pie, dropping crumbs midair as he brought the entire chunk to his mouth. Bob shoved the whole thing in and nearly choked, but Bitty knew that was just the polite reaction to eating a good pie, no matter how gross it may have been. 

“Bitty is great at decorating,” Lardo confirmed. “He’s amazing at making a place feel like home. Maybe you should commission him to liven up the place.”

“I feel like I should hire him to be my personal baker,” Bob groaned, eagerly digging back into what was left--which wasn’t much by any means. “Holy shit, did you make this from scratch?”

Eric nodded. It was nice to get attention from baking; it was his one constant, the best thing he could ever do. He might have been gay, a terrible college student, a horrible son, and even a mediocre hockey player, but he’d be damned if he couldn’t bake a decent pie “Yes, I did. I’m glad you like it.”

“I have to go get Alicia,” he said, taking another huge bite and then setting the plate down, rising to his feet as quickly as he could without choking. “She has to try this pie. I’ll be right back.”

///

Jack felt odd walking into Shitty and Lardo’s apartment in sweats and a worn out “Samwell Men’s Hockey” shirt that Shitty proudly bought him. His father and mother looked so ready for the day, wearing jeans yet not looking sloppy. It was like they were ready for anything, like a last minute coffee run or even a little walk in the park. Something steady, something that let the outside world know they were stable adults unlike their sloppy, broken son.

Bob eagerly pulled his wife into the apartment, and Shitty was all over her as soon as he saw her. “Ali! There’s the best mom ever, get in here!”

Alicia wrapped her arms tightly around Shitty. If Bitty had never met Shitty’s mom, he would have assumed this blonde woman was. She had such a motherly vibe. Eric didn’t know whether or not to line up for a hug or cower away.

“I heard you and Lardo are keeping a world renown baker stuffed in-- oh my God, Larissa Duan, is that a fucking engagement ring?” Shitty was released, almost forgotten, as Alicia made her way towards Lardo. She carefully studied the ring before turning towards her husband, tearful. “Bobby, did you know about this?”

“I just found out today!”

“What the fuck, Bobby, you didn’t even warn me!”

“I figured you’d be surprised, geez.”

Alicia opened her mouth to say something, but saw Eric standing by the kitchen counters. He looked like a sad little school boy watching all the other moms and dads picking up their children, looking lonely and wishful. This had to have been the blond boy Jack was talking about, and the soft pink rings around his eyes were further proof. Her heart almost ached for the stranger. “Are you the world-renown baker my husband was screaming about?”

Eric laughed nervously, still fiddling with his fingers. He walked slowly towards the group though; he knew he should mind his manners, especially around guests. “I suppose so, ma’am.”

“Well, then, I must try a slice!”

“I’m afraid your husband ate the last piece,” Bitty said sadly. “I could always whip up another one, but we’re out of eggs.”

“Funny,” Bob started, giving his son a side-eye. “Jack’s out of eggs, too. It’d probably be a good idea for him to get out of the house.” He clapped a hand on Eric’s shoulder, and though he missed the slight flinch Eric gave at the touch, Alicia and Jack both noticed. “As you can see, he’s a bit of a clutz. Think you can handle the task of taking Jack here to the store?”

Eric nodded, quickly blinking away any moisture from his eyes . You’re fine, you’re fine! You’re okay, he told himself, looking up to Bob with a shaky smile. “I think I’ll manage. What kind of pie did y’all want?”

Bob pulled out his wallet and simply handed it to Jack. “Every kind.”

///

Eric stopped at the stoplight and glanced nervously over at Jack. His heart was beating violently in his chest, almost as bad as it was a few days ago, almost as bad as it was moments before he got his hockey concussion, and almost as bad as it was when he was shoved into the janitor’s closet. He was going to wreck, he had the feeling in his bones, he was was going to wreck this beautiful, luxurious car, probably break Jack’s other leg, and was going to be slapped with a heavy lawsuit. Bitty couldn’t afford a lawyer, not a good one, anyways. Shitty could probably be his lawyer, but at the same time, Shitty would have probably taken Jack’s side. “Did I hit the brake too hard?”

“Why are you antsy? That brake was fine.” Jack looked up from his phone, where he was making a shopping list. He wasn’t planning on coming back out for a while, so he had to make sure he grabbed absolutely everything he needed in this one trip. 

Eric’s eyes were glued to Jack in disbelief. His fingers were gripped so hard around the wheel they were turning white. “You… you’re joking, right? You’re letting me, a stranger--”

“You’re not a stranger,” Jack interrupted, “you’re Shitty and Lardo’s friend, which means you’re a friend of mine, too. Plus, my dad seems to trust you. The pie must be really good.”

“--that’s not the point!”

“What is the point?”

“You barely know me and you’re completely chill with me driving your Mercedes.”

Jack didn’t see a problem. He made a face. “I… you… it’s a car, Bittle.”

“It’s a Mercedes Benz,” Eric emphasized. His knuckles tightened yet again around the steering wheel, and he pressed on the gas at the sight of the green light. “You’re letting some boy drive your luxury car to the grocery store.”

“And I appreciate you driving,” Jack said honestly. “I owe you one. Also, you’re not a boy. You’re only a little younger than I am. So technically, I’m letting a man drive my car.”

Eric groaned. Jack was still not getting the point. “Jack, this is a luxury car. This Mercedes probably cost close to my tuition for four years.”

“Probably not. I think your tuition adds up a little higher. You’re at Samwell with Shitty--well, you were with Shitty. He’s at Harvard. Samwell’s expensive, you know.”

“You’re not phased by a bo--man driving your very expensive luxury car?”

Jack shook his head. “Not at all. It’s better than walking.”

The point went way over Jack’s head yet again, earning another small groan from Eric. The car was nice, though. It was beautiful. Leather and shine everywhere. There really wasn’t music playing--these cars had radios, right? Odd… but nonetheless, the ride was dead silent without any conversation.

He pulled into the grocery store parking lot, hating every damn minute of it. Eric knew he should have parked closer to the front, because of Jack’s leg, but there were so many cars and the thought of scratching the Mercedes was making him nauseous. 

They walked into the grocery store, Jack pulling his cap down a bit to cover more of his face. “So how’d you meet Shitty? I know you went to school together, but he never exactly expanded on that.”

Eric pulled out a shopping cart, trying not to wince at the squeak that resulted. “You can lead the way, we can grab your stuff first. Shitty and I were on the hockey team.”

Jack was shocked, to say the least. “You… played hockey?”

“Ha ha,” Eric said coldly, brown eyes narrowed. “Didn’t know shorties could play, huh?”

“You just… don’t seem like the type,” Jack mumbled. It seemed as if everywhere Jack went, he was still surrounded by hockey. He didn’t like it. The overdose was years ago, and he was better, he really was, but it would always haunt him. The stress was too much, that even seeing a pair of skates bothered him. That was a huge piece of his life that he would never want to relive. There were good times, of course, but those were far and few in between.

He could picture them almost crystal clear, as it were only the bad days that were blurred together into some huge mess. Most of them involved Kent. Smiles sent across the ice, small bumps, happy glances.

Oh, God. Kent was a bad experience, too. It used to be so positive; Jack could remember the warmth of Kent’s face as he was curled against him, the way his fingers would find Jack’s in secrecy, the small kisses that may have been so insignificant to others, but were the world to Jack.

“What’d you eat today?” Kent had murmured sleepily in Jack’s hair, eyes drifting to close as Jack’s eyes strained on whatever book he was reading.

“I had an apple and a piece of grilled chicken for dinner,” Jack responded.

“You need more than that, baby.”

Jack melted. Every time the word baby slipped off of Kent’s tongue, a warm kiss followed and Jack knew it. He closed his book, but Kent was already letting his fingers grip Jack’s chin, making him turn his way. “Hey,” Jack murmured.

“Hey yourself.”

But the curtain closed. Kent’s life moved on without him as if it was the easiest thing ever, and Jack was left wondering what role he would play now. He didn’t have a part in Kent’s life, not anymore, and that was probably for the best. But he missed the warmth. Not of having a lover, but having someone around, someone to light up the room and make his home not feel so empty.

Thankfully, Eric seemed to notice how Jack hesitated at the mention of hockey. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he said calmly, following Jack down an aisle. “There’s really not much to talk about, really. What about you? Did you meet Shitty when he moved in…?”

Jack let out a sigh of relief. “Actually, I met Shitty at a dinner party thing. Someone wanted to cast me in their film but it was really sexist, he told me not to take it. And then we went out for pizza.”

“Wow. That does sound a lot like Shitty--wait, cast you in a film?”

Jack nodded, leaning heavier on one crutch so that way he could grab a box of pasta. He slipped; luckily Eric was able to keep him from falling and help him regain his balance.

Jack flushed red and his body tensed up. “Sorry.” He grabbed his crutches tightly in both hands. Imagine him going to the store on his own. One person would see it and then boom, the entire thing would be all over the internet. Jack tried to stay off of the internet as much as possible; there were too many people there that always had something negative to say. The imaginary headlines flashed through his mind: Jack Zimmermann can belt a high note but can’t grab a box of pasta! Fuck, or worse: No wonder Jack Zimmermann couldn’t land a role in Wicked.

Rather than laughing--thank God he didn’t laugh--Eric gave him a smirk and grabbed the box of pasta that was teetering on the edge of the shelf. “How about you just tell me what you want and I’ll grab it?”

“I can grab the pasta, Bittle, it’s not that big of a deal.” His voice came out shaky, and he mentally cursed himself. This was taking too much out of him. What was he supposed to do if he couldn’t even grab a damn box of pasta?

“Stop calling me Bittle…” Eric paused, scrunching his nose. “I don’t even know your last name.”

“Zimmermann.”

“Thank you, Mr. Zimmermann. Now shut your yap and let me grab your groceries so you don’t fall in the store and screw up your other leg, okay?” He placed the box in the cart and the two of them continued walking again. “So anyways, back to the whole movie thing.”

“Of course.” Jack looked straight ahead. “I’m in a few movies.”

“As extras?”

That was when Jack realized Eric had no clue who he was. The last name comment could have been an indication, but people are sneaky like that. Hell, Shitty and Lardo knew him, but they were also cool about it. Eric continued to give him a confused look, genuinely curious, and most of Jack’s fear faded away.

“Main roles.”

Eric nodded. “Okay, that would explain the Mercedes.”

“I was being casted for musicals, as well. I almost had Fiyero in Wicked, but well, then my damn leg happened and I was out for a while.” Jack looked back at Eric, who was giving him a confused look. “What?”

“You’re some rich guy that’s hanging around with a loser like me?”

“You’re not a loser, also, I don’t see why my money has anything to do with who I’m spending time with, but okay. Is that a southern thing?”

Eric scoffed in disbelief at the remark. “No, I--Jack, you’re famous!”

“Okay.”

“You could be partying with Beyonce or something right now!”

“She sent me a get well card, if that means anything. She’s very kind.”

Eric groaned. “You’re not getting the point!”

“Probably because you’re not making one.”

“You better cut that sass, Mr. Zimmermann, or I’ll toss your crutch down aisle three and run.”

Jack smiled. It was clear he was enjoying his time here. He liked meeting new people, and that was harder to do these days when most people were either obsessed with him or a critic. “All right, all right. No more sass. But stop being so hard on yourself. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here.”

“No offense, but grocery shopping isn’t exactly fun, regardless of who it’s with.”

“We’ll have to come back when my leg is feeling better then,” Jack said smoothly, pointing to a box of minute rice for Eric to grab. “I’m the best when it comes to cart racing.” 

Eric shook his head and put the box in the cart. “You’re unreal.”

When they finally reached the produce, Eric looked over at Jack timidly. “So, um. Was your father serious about the pies?”

Jack shrugged. “Probably. He’s a huge fan of the dad bod at the moment, so I wouldn’t put it past him. How many different kinds of pies can you make?”

“My talents don’t just stop at pies, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Could you make a cherry tart?”

Eric nodded. “Of course.”

“Could you show me how to make one?” Jack continued.

Eric’s fingers trailed lightly over bags of apples. Price tags flashed in his head, but that wasn’t the least of his worries. He didn’t have any of his baking things with him--no, he didn’t own them anymore. His kitchen-aid stand mixer? That was no longer his, sitting down in Georgia with his momma. Lardo and Shitty had some things, but that was mostly cookie trays, disposable pie tins and two measuring cups. Eric was getting tired of being creative to bake. He wanted his mixer back, he wanted his pans and tins, he wanted his whisks and his apron and his rolling pin. Finally, he answered Jack in a soft, low voice, “Yes. It’ll be a little rough, but I think we can manage it.”

“What do you mean? Is it hard to make?”

“I just don’t have my baking supplies, that’s all,” he answered, lifting a bag of apples into the cart. “My equipment, I guess would be a better word. It’s down in Georgia.”

“Why didn’t you bring it with you?”

“Momma kicked me out. I didn’t have time to grab anything.”

“I’m sorry.” And he was. Jack knew how hard it was to get kicked out like you meant nothing. He assumed it was because he was gay--with how everything was being handled and how everything hurt--and he was determined to make it better, just as he wished someone had done for him. “Well, what all do you need? We can go to the kitchen store just a few minutes away.”

Eric laughed. “Well, unless you got five-hundred dollars for a new mixer.” His faced turned white and he sputtered, but it was too late. Jack already had his phone out. “No, Jack--no! I forgot you were rich, don’t you dare--”

“But I do have the money for a new mixer.”

“You can’t just buy a stranger a kitchen-aid mixer!”

“Again, Bittle, you’re not a stranger.” 

“No--dang it, Jack, don’t you dare waste your money on me!”

“But I really want to learn to bake things. And you said this would make things easier.” When Eric clearly wasn’t content with that, he continued, “You can pretend it’s mine if you’d like. I’ll just say I’m buying it for myself.”

“No--”

“Fine, then.”

“Jack!”

That was how they ended up in a kitchen store, wondering how they were going to carry everything up to the front, because they weren’t thinking clearly when they walked past the carts. The two made their way back to grab a cart, and Jack proceeded to fill it with necessary kitchen items. Eric made the mistake of telling Jack he needed a spring form pan if he had to make a cheesecake--per Alicia’s request. 

“I don’t need--”

Jack put the cookie sheets in the cart, sitting right on top of the cherry red kitchen-aid mixer. “If you’re going to make desserts and teach me how to bake, then yes, you need these things.”

“You need to stop wasting your money on me,” Eric said sternly, reluctantly putting a whisk and a lemon juicer into the cart. “I guarantee there are millions of better ways to spend your money.”

Jack turned to look at him. “The next time you say that, I’m putting another mixer in the cart.”

Eric sighed, a bit dramatically, and grabbed a stack of measuring cups. “All this for a cherry tart?”

Jack just smiled. “Well, the cherry tart is just step one. You have a whole cookbook of recipes to guide me through, Bittle.”

Finally, Eric had some sort of purpose.


	4. can we meet in the middle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! Holy fuck! I am so sorry, my life has been a mess, and I know it's been months... (yikes)... but I hope this chapter will be good enough to make y'all forgive me. Anyways, I remade my Tumblrs, so if anyone wants to chat or drop off a prompt, my main is blueberrymuffinpoptarts, and my new omgcp! account is jackfuckingzimms !!!
> 
> ALSO, tomorrow (the third) is my birthday and I start classes at my new university then, too! I can't wait! 
> 
> ALSO ALSO, thank you SO MUCH for all the comments and kudos. You all mean the world to me, thank you!

“I’m doing this all wrong,” Jack muttered, wincing at the crust he was making for the cheesecake. Bitty watched him make it up and was working on the cream cheese component while Jack’s task was to press the crust down, but there was no such luck. Jack wasn’t pleased with his work.

“You’re doing fine.” Bitty dropped the little rubber spatula and grabbed a bigger measuring cup for Jack, handing it over. “Don’t press too hard.”

“But you said--”

“I didn’t take your muscles into consideration, Mr. Zimmermann, now ease up a bit or there will be powder instead of crust.”

Jack sighed, holding the measuring cup gently, as if it were a newborn baby. “How am I supposed to make a cherry tart when I can’t even make a cheesecake crust?”

Bitty rolled his eyes. “Why are you so set on this cherry tart? I mean, it’s nothing too extravagant and I’m certain you’ll be fine, but why that? Why not cookies or cupcakes or, well, anything?”

Jack opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Bitty’s hand was on his, fingers closing around his wrist to pull it back. “You just wanna pat it down so the sucker don’t pop out. Don’t kill the crust.”

Jack did as he was told, showed Bitty he could do it, and the blond man walked away. After a couple pats, he remembered the question and gave an answer. “It was the first page, and cherries were all I had.”

“I need to take you to a farmer’s market,” Bitty said, adding a splash of vanilla and mixing the cream cheese filling again. “You need to keep an eye on the fruit, you know.”

“Cherries are cherries, though.”

Bitty snorted a laugh, tapping the rubber spatula on the side of the bowl. “Sure,” he chuckled. “Wanna bet on that?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

Alicia loved the cheesecake. She declared it as soon as she took a bite, and then again in a softer voice after eating three slices. There was once a room full of laughter and conversation; desserts were made, Jack learned a thing or two about baking, but as tummies were filled, the noise level drastically decreased. The only sound to be heard was that of Bob and Shitty doing the dishes, including all the pans and mixing bowls that were used.

“There is no way I could ever settle for anyone else’s pie,” Alicia said with a content sigh, resting a hand over her bloated belly. “I think I’ll have to kidnap you and keep you as our personal chef. Oh, can you cook, too?”

Bitty smiled, picking up plates and silverware to bring to the sink. “Are y’all gonna be in town for a little while? We’d have to run to the store again, but that shouldn’t be a problem, I’ll show you just how well I can cook.”

Lardo groaned. “Bitty, I can’t handle this much of your cooking. I don’t know when to stop eating.”

“If I’m going to break my diet, I guess I’d better make it good,” Bob chimed in. “Jack, give the boy my credit card. The limit is in the thousands, buy whatever you need for this amazing dinner.”

“It shouldn’t--” Bitty was cut off instantly, his arms flailing and fingers desperately trying to grasp the little plastic that Jack tossed towards him. “Oh my God--they’re going to card me. They’re going to know I’m not Bob Zimmermann.”

“It’s a pretty common name,” Alicia said. “I could venmo you some money. Three hundred enough?”

Bitty sputtered at that comment. “Good lord, three hundred? What do you want me to do, throw a fancy five-course dinner party for y’all complete with pairing wines?”

Alicia didn’t even miss a beat. “Could you? Not saying you have to, but damn, can you do all that?”

Bitty pondered it, making mental lists in his head and planning too far ahead for his own good. Looking down at the small credit card in his hand, he nodded. “Yeah. I’d better take the card, though, Lardo and I have expensive taste in wine.”

Alicia laughed. Her eyes squeezed closed and her teeth were bared, but it wasn’t obnoxious. It was, well, Bitty thought it was motherly. With her face scrunched to almost camouflage the high cheekbones and her blue eyes hidden in her fit of laughter, Eric was reminded of his mother.

No. He was reminded of Suzanne. He didn’t have a mother--possibly didn’t have a father or a family to call his own, either. Faggots don’t get families. He cringed at his own choice of words and clenched his hands so hard the credit card almost broke skin.

“You good?”

Eric was broken from his thoughts and suddenly had everyone looking at him, and he couldn’t figure out who asked him that, and he couldn’t stop his face from heating up, and he couldn’t even make his parents proud and he probably didn’t fit in with Lardo and Shitty’s friends and he wastoos ad t go b h breathe I but he’s I’m breathe lost h gs th nk mom sorry breathe cold breathe cold breathe cold brEATHE MOM I’M--

“Breathe.”

Eric sucked in a huge breath and his eyes snapped up to meet Alicia’s. She wasn’t his mom, but her cold hands were wrapped lightly around his upper arms, anchoring on to him to keep him here. Blue eyes, cheekbones--she was worried. Eric could feel a tear roll down his face, but he felt too trapped under Alicia to wipe it away.

“Is he okay?” Shitty called out, appearing next to the couch.

Alicia wiped the tear away with a cool thumb, lighter than a butterfly’s wing against his chin. Eric sucked in another breath, and a strangled sob followed. She tightened her grip ever so slightly, holding him closer. “What do I need to do?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, half out of embarrassment and half because of the pressing weight on his chest. There was too much weight. He couldn’t form words. There was too much too much too much too much too much too much toomuch t oo mu chto o much TOO MUCH TOO MUCH breathe BREATHE TOO mUCH bREATHe--

“Don’t feel sorry,” Alicia told him. “What do I need to do? How can we help you?”

In a burst of strength, Eric tore himself away and locked himself in his room. He should have been over this. He should have been stronger than this.

///

Jack dreamed about dying that night. He could feel the stomach acid burning his throat, his mother’s sobs shaking his hospital bed, and the heartbreak that followed for the next three weeks. He could remember taking pill after pill, desperately trying to feel numb, to feel weightless, at least until tomorrow morning--

“How many did you fucking take?” Kent growled, pulling him back harshly.

Jack glanced at the red solo cup his boyfriend was holding and scoffed. “You’re too drunk to care.”

“You’re gonna regret this,” he spat. Kent pushed him up against the wall. Not too hard, but with enough force to get him out of the way quickly. They stood in the little corner, as if no one could see them. “Jack, baby, you’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t stop.”

Jack took the cup from his hands and downed it in two big gulps. “You’re just mad because you can’t comfort me like this.”

Kent smacked the cup away. “Fuck you, Zimmermann! You know what? Go ahead, kill yourself. I don’t care anymore.” He released Jack from his grip and took a baby step back, his eyes filled with rage and his tongue not holding anything back. “You have a deathwish and I won’t stop you. You’re probably better off dead anyways.”

Then, of course, four days later Jack was found next to an empty pill bottle and everything fell apart. Kent called him like crazy, he begged the Zimmermanns to tell Jack to answer him, he was losing his damn mind because fuck, that was the love of his life in there. But Jack wasn’t strong enough to face that. With the burn in his throat, he begged his father to not make him go to rehab, to not make him stay in the hospital, to let him get back into hockey.

Bob kissed his forehead and blinked back tears. “Jack. We have all the time in the world, okay? No more rushing. Our focus is to get you feeling better.”

He didn’t like those dreams. When he woke up, he swallowed his spit until he couldn’t feel the burn from his memory and he stared at the ceiling until his stomach growled. Getting out of bed with his leg was the worst, and honestly, he considered calling his mother in for help. That would have been a little too embarrassing, though. He was a grown man, he shouldn’t need any help. 

Jack shuffled his way into his kitchen the next morning to see his parents drinking coffee and discussing plans. Breakfast plans. Of course. He wasn’t used to this much social interaction compacted into such little time. Yesterday was a blast--he had fun shopping with Bitty and learning how to bake a bit, but today should have been a buffer day. He was too overwhelmed. Sadly, his parents were ready to go out and mingle once again.

“Morning, papa, maman.”

“Morning, honey.” Alicia smiled at her son, turning to see him. She sat on one of the stools, dressed and ready for the day, her hands wrapped around a mug that was no longer steaming hot. They must have been for a little while. Jack glanced at the clock to see it read eleven-o-eight, meaning he slept through his alarm. Or, by the look on Alicia’s face, she’d shut off his alarm. 

“Sleep well?” she asked, still smiling as she pressed her lips to the mug.

Jack hobbled over to the island, but before he could grab a cup himself, Bob had slid a mug of steaming coffee over his way. This was way too planned. Jack sat up on the stool between his parents as Bob placed sugar and creamer on the island for him.

“Thank you.” Jack mixed his coffee. “I slept fine,” he answered his mother as he worked. “Could have been better. I wasn’t expecting to sleep so long, though, I feel behind on my day.”

“You need a break, though,” Alicia murmured. “So, we’re going to brunch later. It’ll be fun, don’t you think? And then maybe we could see a movie of some sorts, or I’m sure there’s something else we could do--”

“Why?”

“Because the minute we leave, you’ll spend your time pent up in your apartment,” Bob pointed out. “From then until you get your boot off, you’ll be a hermit.”

“Will not.”

Alicia snorted. “Sure, Jack, sure. You haven’t gone to visit Shitty and Lardo since you were injured.”

“Shitty was planning on proposing, and then with Eric coming up and taking up their time, I didn’t want to intrude,” Jack defended, stirring his coffee without looking up. “That’s the last thing anyone needs. I’m not gonna just burst in there like, ‘hey, I know your friend is sad but I need attention.’”

“Why? That’s what your father did yesterday.”

“I’m not my father!”

“You’re right,” Bob said, “you’re not the one that had to do all those dishes last night.”

“Goddammit, papa, I helped make the cheesecake, what else do you want from me?”

Alicia grinned in victory. “We want you to spend the day with us going fun stuff! Lardo said Eric’s good at decorating too, he could help brighten this place up--oh, maybe you can even go pickout wine with him. Is he old enough to drink? Is he twenty or twenty-one?”

Jack sighed, but he knew he was too far in to get his way now. “Eric has broken down, what? Three times since he got here? Maman, he had a really bad panic attack last night. And you just want me to go wine shopping with him and ask him to decorate my apartment?”

“He’s gay, Jack.”

“Okay?”

Bob sipped his coffee, clearly unwilling to say anything more. Alicia took over from there, the smile gone from her face, and Serious Mom Zimmermann was brought out. “He got kicked out because he came out to his mom. He’s heartbroken. I’m pretty sure he just needs a bit of purpose.”

“And I’m supposed to put him to work?”

“Jack, do you know what it’s like to be rejected by the ones you loved most?”

Jack hesitated. Of course he did, of fucking course. She was hitting a nerve. He put his head down and glanced towards his crutches. He wished he could walk away without looking like a dumbass. “Yes,” he mumbled. “And yes, I know it hurts like hell. But he’s clearly still upset about it. Don’t you think he would like a day or two to, I don’t know, feel better?”

“Not everyone likes to suffer alone, Jack,” his mother murmured before standing up and starting to clear away the remains of this morning’s coffee and breakfast.

///

Eric was found the next morning asleep at the counter, sitting on a stool, surrounded by a myriad of baked goods. Larissa, in a cheerful mood due to the good dick she’d just received, just wanted a cup of coffee. The coffee pot, however, was hidden by trays of muffins and little mason jars of banana bread.

“Where the fuck did he even get these mason jars?” she muttered, pulling a mug from the shelf. She looked around. There were at least three pies, a couple dozen muffins, some cookies, and loaves of bread. Oh, and the mini cheesecakes were stacked in the fridge, Lardo found out seconds later.

“Bits?” She shook his shoulder. “Bitty, bro, wake up!”

Eric groaned, circling his arms around his head. “Five more minutes.”

“Did you stay up all night baking?”

Eric was still. “...yeah. I had to make a sorry-basket for Mrs. Zimmermann. I hope I didn’t scare them off.” Eric lifted his head and looked at Lardo with droopy eyes and a slight frown. “Do you think they’ll still want dinner?”

“Yeah, bro, they understand.”

“What do you mean they understand?”

Lardo shrugged. “I told them what happened. I mean, Jack doesn’t know, he went home before his parents did, but Bob and Alicia--”

Eric groaned again, resting his face in his arms miserably. “They probably think I’m stupid, Lardo! Who the hell gets all worked up over being kicked out?” He peeked up again, shyly, eyes more alert. “Alicia looked too much like my mom.”

“She did?” she prompted, leaning on the counter, silently telling him to continue.

Eric looked past her; he looked at nothing, too upset to look her in the face. The blank wall was less judgemental. “Maybe I just wanted her to look like her, I don’t know. But she was so happy and she was laughing, I…” He trailed off. “Momma tried hitting me. I don’t think she realized--she was holding her rolling pin and she swung at me--”

“Bits--”

“--but I dodged it. I just… Mrs. Zimmermann was nice. She’s soft and sweet and I don’t think she’d ever hit me with a rolling pin.” Eric sniffed and gave a sad smile. “I sound stupid, huh?” he asked in a small, watery voice. 

“She shouldn’t have hit you,” Lardo said. “And Bitty, Ali would never. She adores you! Of course they’d still be on for dinner. I bet she’s looking forward to it.”

Eric sat up and wiped his eyes, but the tears were still thick in his throat. “I don’t want to cry anymore. Part of me wished I never came out.” He took a slow breath, but what more was there to say? Silence set in. Neither one of them made any effort to push it away. Instead, Bitty stood up and began packaging up baked goods for Alicia’s sorry-basket.

///

Eating was still proving to be a bigger problem than Jack had anticipated. There were too many calories going in, and without his daily workouts due to his broken leg, there weren’t as many calories as he’d like coming out. He stared at the menu in front of him, the conversation around him buzzing softly in his ears, unnoticed. A shoulder jerked into his, and he was pulled from his thoughts.

Bitty looked up at him, sliding a bit closer to whisper. “Get the frittata.”

“What?”

“You’re mumbling numbers,” Bitty explained, reaching around Jack’s arm to point at the menu. “I used to count calories too when I figure skated. The frittata has about 230, maybe 250 calories, which is reasonable, if they make it how I think they do. It’s an estimate, but it’s pretty close. There’s a good bit of protein in there, too.” Eric pondered that thought. “It’s tasty but you don’t have to worry about overdoing it.”

“I--what?”

Eric rolled his eyes and looked at his own menu, lips tugging at the side. “You’re worried about your body.”

“Yeah, it’s really the only thing I have going for me.”

“I dunno, Mr. Zimmermann, you did a pretty good job pressing the crust for the cheesecake into the pan.” The younger one turned to him with a wide smile, teasing. Of course. When Jack failed to respond, Eric shyly let his smile drop and turned his attention back to flipping through the menu. 

What a jerk. What a fucking jerk. He stared at the frittata and wondered why anyone would even bother with him anymore. Kent couldn’t.

Kent straight up left him, abandoned him and made him feel lower than low. Sort of--kind of--shit. Everything was so confusing, it was all slurring together like a complete mess, and--

He used to blame himself for everything. The broken bottles that Kent would leave around, sticky and leaking everywhere, the result of a three-am fight between an anxiety-ridden Jack and a drunk, pissy Kent. That used to weigh jack down, to know that every time Kent got drunk and raised his hand at Jack, how he made Jack cower in such a way that Kent had the high ground, how Kenny turned into his father after complaining he’d never want to be like the person that put his mother in the hospital, oh, Lord, Jack was at fault here. All the screaming, the begging, the forced, half-assed sex that Kent swore would fix-everything, but all it did was leave Jack sore and wondering if this is what his future would be like.

But it wasn’t. Kent wasn’t in the picture anymore. There were no more broken promises in the shape of empty vodka bottles and no more groveling, no more drunk begging, no more kissing the inside of Jack’s thighs in hoping that tomorrow morning, after a cold shower and a soft kiss on the chin, everything would be swept under the rug and labeled as okay.

“And for you, hun?”

Jack snapped out of it, meeting the eyes of an older waitress with worry lines and a million cares in the world, but a soft tone to her voice. There were no more harsh awakenings to be had. It was possible that maybe, just maybe, Jack could get over his worries and pick up some pieces he might have lost along the way. He smiled, gently, and folded the menu up before handing it over. “I’ll have the spinach and tomato frittata, extra spinach, please.”

“Anything else?”

He shook his head. “Nope. I’ll have to eat light. I hear we’re having a heck of a dinner later on, complete with wine and everything. I wouldn’t want to arrive full, now would I?”

Baby steps, you glorious fucker, baby steps.


	5. hit me hard, I want to see the stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for domestic abuse (flash backs) and vomiting! Rather brief scenes but I just want to be sure you're warned. If anything else needs noted, please let me know!
> 
> Thank you for the birthday wishes and all the nice comments. You guys are the best! Hope this wait wasn't as bad as the previous! :)

Life only seems to get harder from here. When Bob and Alicia leave, Jack shut down again. He was pissed at the world, his leg, even his own damn memories, and nothing will stop it. God, how he wished it would just stop. He curled up in bed only to lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling, the plain, beige ceiling, for there was nothing else for him to do.

He wondered what Shitty would be doing. Shitty had made it very clear where he stood on snuggling, and with Jack’s mood so low, he could really use a little bit of contact. Lardo would probably join, too--they were the only people in the world that didn’t find casual contact like that creepy, thank God for that. Jack looked at his phone, at the empty, dark screen, and the misery seemed to only grow. 

He felt numb, but it… it wasn’t right. It was the same feeling he desperately craved and chased after as a teenager, but it wasn’t right. He felt cold, like the equivalent of white noise. Three shots of vodka couldn’t do this to him, not even twenty-ish little blue pills. His mind began to wonder, unhealthily so, to what should have happened. Maybe he should have died. He should have let the static spread until he couldn’t feel anything, until his lungs were slo

Shocked and hurt, Jack flung himself up into a sitting position. His throat burned as the memory of falling to the cold bathroom floor replayed in his head. Hands shook, breathing was all over the place, too much disappointment, too many pills.

He grabbed his phone quickly, fingers all but clawing at the screen, and he pulled up Kent’s contact information. Should… should he have texted him? Jack’s mind raced, spinning in circles, leaving him dizzier than before. Texting him would have been odd--maybe. He needed some support right now. 

That was stupid, though. Jack didn’t even text Kent when he realized something was wrong before he overdosed. Just like now, the phone was in his hands; Jack’s thumb wasn’t strong enough to send the message, but neither was Jack’s will. Kenny I need you. Third floor, first bathroom.

Kent wouldn’t care. Kent told him four days ago that he deserved to die. Instead, he called Kent’s phone and went instantly to voicemail. “I hope this is what you wanted,” Jack slurred into the phone, eyes heavy. “I hope this makes you happy, Kenny. I’m sorry and I love you.”

The phone dropped before Jack did, but at least the phone was still in working condition. 

Jack didn’t know when he passed out, but when he woke up, the sweet smell of cinnamon welcomed him. He pushed himself up slowly and grabbed his phone. No texts, no calls, nothing--he could have fell off the face of the earth and no one would have noticed or cared, at least not initially.

Pain in his stomach made him get out of bed, better late than never, and he slowly hobbled into the kitchen. The gray mood was washed away, suffocated in softness and hues of yellow. Van Gogh said it was a happy color, and Jack now knew why. The smells, the glow from the windows, the low volume of the music, and--Bitty?

He was standing in the middle of Jacks unused kitchen, icing cinnamon rolls. The entire place looked different. There were decorations, nothing too big, just subtle items to make the entire place seem more lived in.

Bitty noticed Jack and smiled shyly. “Hey, sorry if I woke you up. Your parents gave me a credit card and a key and, well, sorry. I really need the money, so I just followed their orders.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Jack murmured, pulling out a stool. “You picked a good time. I’m ready to jump out of my skin.”

Eric slid him a cinnamon roll on a saucer. “Anxiety?”

“Isn’t it always, though?” Jack grimaced at the dessert in front of him, but he desperately wanted the happiness inside of him. Fingers slowly picked up the fork. It was going to be hard work for a while, but Jack was willing to try. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so down.”

“I have some chicken in the oven for dinner,” Eric told him. “Your parents left me a list of your likes and dislikes.” In his hands, he held the list, and read off a few examples. “You like chicken, veggies, boring foods--”

“Do not!”

“--and bland foods. We’ll fix that. Healthy doesn’t have to mean bland. You don’t like pumpkin pie, grapefruit, action movies--which isn’t a food, but that’s fine--paella, fish, mayonnaise...anything else I should be aware of?” 

“No. But how much are they paying you?”

“Huh?” Eric’s cheeks were red, embarrassed to be put on the spot. Money discussions were not comfortable, at least not to Eric. He didn’t usually need to have these talks. There was no reason with his parents; he was lucky enough to be supported to a point and not have to worry about ending up poor or stretching himself too thin. But now, without his support system in place, he was nothing. Broke, freeloading off his friends, and now, taking odd jobs from a rich, older couple in order to get his life back on track. Of course. Of fucking course.

“You said you really needed the money,” Jack commented, stabbing his fork into the cinnamon bun. “How much are my parents paying you?”

“Oh--uh, only my textbooks for next semester. I didn’t want to take advantage of their kindness, I--”

“Don’t feel awkward, it’s fine,” Jack told him. “Just wanted to make sure they’re paying you enough if you have to deal with my grumpy ass all the time.” He took a bite and relished in the sweet flavors, the happiness that made its way to his gut. He wanted it all to himself. “What does the job entail?”

Eric’s hands fumbled in his apron. “I... I’m uh, supposed to just decorate? And make sure you’re not locking yourself up alone? That’s really it. It’s just something until I find a job, or until I go back to school in three months.”

“Oh, so you’re the lucky one that’s supposed to babysit me?”

Eric shrugged. “I...I mean… I guess? I don’t know. It’s better than us sitting alone all day, isn’t it?”

He did have a point, Jack had to admit. It wasn’t just about Jack and his self-destructive patterns, but also about Eric and his desperation for a purpose. Maybe the happiness didn’t stop at the cinnamon roll.

“So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow? Can’t keep me in the house all day,” Jack teased.

Eric smiled, and the feeling of warmth spread across the room. It was such a real, a genuine smile, that Jack had to smile too. Eric grabbed a spatula from the drawer and continued to work as he answered Jack. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

///

Kent had never hit Jack before that point. It started like this: Jack pushed Kent’s shoulder back, groaning, turning his head to the side. “Kenny, stop.”

“You’re still hard,” Kent said as soon as his lips pulled off of his boyfriend. Jack looked down at him, at the bastard with pink, wet lips, and that should have been enough to urge Kent to finish. But he wasn’t into this. Sure, he was half-hard, but he didn’t care to continue, to play along with Kent’s dumb fantasy. 

“You got off, though,” Jack mumbled, pulling away the best he could. The wall behind him stopped any movements, any chances to break free. Kent’s fist was still wrapped around him, slowing to a stop. “I don’t want to continue.”

“Okay,” Kent sighed, sitting up. “What’s wrong? This is the third time you’ve done this. I’m not going to pressure you into continuing, but I want to know why you want to stop.”

Jack pulled his pants up, not bothering to wipe himself clean or do anything about his erection. “I just don’t see the point. You got off, that’s all that matters.” There. It was out there now, the truth. It felt good to say. Jack didn’t want this. Kent got off, and that was basically the only goal to be achieved tonight. 

“You think I only do this with me in mind?”

Jack rolled his eyes, reaching for his shirt. “I’ve made it clear how much I didn’t want to do this, but hey, as soon as you put a condom on, I can’t do anything to keep you out of my ass.”

Kent scoffed a laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me, Zimms? You were the one moaning like a whore as soon as I kissed your neck. You’re such a fucking tease, you know that?”

“I’m not looking to get intense or crazy, and I sure as hell wasn’t looking to be your screw-toy, Kenny,” Jack spat. “I told you, all I wanted to do was kiss you. You asked me if I liked it, I said no, and you said you’d make it better.”

“Like I said, you were moaning like a whore, I assumed you liked it.”

“You know what? Fine. Sure, I liked it. Sorry I even said anything. Thank you for the sex, now please get out of my room.”

Kent stood up, but he didn’t make a point to collect any of his things. His face twisted into anger. “You’re not being serious.”

“I am. Please leave.”

“I’m not going to let you make me feel like some sort of fuck-up,” Kent growled. “Look, I’m sorry, but stop being a dick. I’m not leaving.”

“Then I’ll leave.” Jack pulled his shirt over his head and once his arms were through, he made his way towards the door, but Kent grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. “Let go, Kenny.”

“Shut up! Just listen!”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Jack said, trying his hardest to swallow the lump in his throat. The sex, the yelling, the fighting, the half-assed making up, everything was beginning to get to him. His anxiety had never been higher, not until the future when Jack would wake up after his overdose and find Kenny being dragged out of his room. He cleared his throat, looking down at his feet instead of at Kent. “You’re such a pain in my ass, and I’m tired of dealing with you.”

“I’m not the problem here.” Kent’s voice was colder than ice, sharper than a blade, and Jack wished it was all just a show. Kent’s fingers tightened around Jack’s wrist, nails digging into skin. “You’re not going to pin this all on me.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You think I’m the reason you’re not living up to your father. You think I’m the reason you feel miserable, you think I’m the reason you’re a huge fucking mess, but wake up, Jack, it’s all your own fucking fault, it’s all that shit in your head!”

“Get out of my room.”

“No!” Kent hissed. “You’re going to listen to me! I’m not going to let you blame me for your problems. I love you Jack, you’re my life, but--”

Jack started pulling at Kent’s hand, screaming right back at him. He tried his hardest, using all the strength he had, anything to get away from him. The yelling grew louder, building, until Kent swung. His right fist made its way into Jack’s left eye, and the world stopped. Jack was on the floor, slumped against the bookshelf with a throbbing pain in his eye; he reached up to touch it but everything was moving in slow motion. Kent towered in front of him, angry face slowly transitioning into fear and regret.

“Baby, I--”

“Get out of my room.”

“I’m sorry,” Kent whispered, broken, kneeling to comfort him. His hands reached forward, but Jack whined. Kent was shaking--that fucker had no reason to be upset. He wasn’t the one being hit and fucked over, he wasn’t the one being torn apart, what fucking nerve he had, to break down with his sad, crumbling gray eyes. What fucking nerve, to reach out and act like it was a minor mistake, what fucking nerve--

“I’m sorry,” Kent repeated, tears beginning to swell in his eyes. 

“You told everyone how you’d never grow up to be like your dad,” Jack muttered, palm covering his eye. “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know! I--”

“Get out!”

“Babe, please,” Kent begged. “I’m sorry, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why I did that, I would never hurt you, please--”

“Get. Out. Kenny.”

Kent stood up slowly. For someone always wanting to go so fast, he sure did move dramatically slow. Jack turned his head. The door creaked as it opened and clicked softly as it closed. There were no tears on Jack’s part. 

When Jack saw Kent the next day, Kent sobbed at the sight of Jack’s black eye. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he blubbered.

Jack decided to forgive him. If he cried that hard about it, he must’ve been sorry. Right?

///

“Where are we?” Jack asked Bitty as he helped him climb out of the Mercedes Benz, crutches and reusable bags in tow. 

Bitty took the bags from him and closed the door. “We’re at the farmer’s market,” he answered. “I figured we could get some fresh vegetables to grill tonight with some steaks, and maybe some fruits for smoothies and pies. Fruit smoothies are good ways to satisfy a sweet tooth without overdoing it, I figured you’d like that.”

Jack pulled his cap lower on his eyes. He was a bisexual celebrity that had gone off the radar, only to show up in public again, alone with another boy. Reporters and paps were going to have a field day with this one if he was seen. The crutches didn’t help, and neither did the shiny, back mercedes. 

“Jenny always has the best peppers,” Bitty told him, leading him along. “They’re amazing, probably the best for a steak. I was thinking onions, maybe mushrooms depending on how you feel about them, and what else? We could grill a good amount of veggies, I’d say.”

“I don’t know. What about a whole meadley?” Jack asked. “I trust whatever you decide to do. Your cooking is amazing.”

“Have you ever had grilled watermelon?” Eric stopped in front of a booth and smiled. “It’s so good! I hear a lot of vegans use it as a steak substitute. I’ve only had it once, but I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“Sounds weird. I’ll try it, though.”

“What about that cherry tart you wanted to make?”

“I have cherries at home.”

“You mean you had cherries? They looked horrible, I pitched them.” Eric held up a cherry and gestured to it. “You see this? This is a good cherry. Yours were looking pretty sad. Best fruit equals best results.”

“Shook, I forgot to bring my notebook with me,” Jack teased. “I don’t know if I’ll remember that.”

Eric rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at his lips. “No need to be a smart-ass.”

“I just want to make sure I’ll be the best baker ever.”

“I guess I’ll have to test you on your knowledge, then. Might wanna remember that information, Mr. Zimmermann, it’ll be on the exam.”

///

Eric hunched over the toilet, tears burning his eyes. Dinner came back up, his stomach lurched. He was tired of this. He was so fucking tired of the nightmares and the vomiting. His breathing, sloppy and uneven, echoing off the walls. Slowly, he leaned back to rest on his feet. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, oh my Lord, he was in so much pain.

A harsh knock at the door made him jump, nearly out of his crawling skin. “Just a sec, momma,” he called out, accent stronger than ever. 

“Bits, bro, you okay?”

That wasn’t his mother’s voice. He looked around, but the--what?--nothing matched up. Where…? He was in his bathroom, he was home, he was down in Georgia. He knew it, he was home, he didn’t get kicked out.

He reached out to flush the toilet, but another round stopped him, and he was back to leaning over the toilet bowl. There was another knock, ad this time, a louder voice. “Dicky, you better get out here. Some people have to use the bathroom.”

“Almost done,” he rasped, spitting any excess out.

The door trembled as the knob was twisted repeatedly. “Fags don’t get first dib here, boy, get the heck out of my bathroom before I wake your father!”

“Please! One more minute,” he coughed, trying his hardest to hold back the sobs. It was worse than being kicked out. Hearing his mother say that drove him insane, it killed him. Anxiety racked his nerves so much worse.

The door was kicked open and Bitty screamed out, “Momma, no! Don’t--”

“Bits, Bitty, no--no, it’s okay.”

He pushed hands away, but it wasn’t his mother. Shitty was holding him down, pushing him against the sink in order to keep him still. Lardo was standing in the doorway, eyes wide. The cold ceramic felt nice on the back of Bitty’s neck, but it wasn’t enough to soothe his fears. 

“You’re okay, no one’s going to hurt you.” Shitty wet a rag and pressed it against Eric’s forehead. When did he become so motherly? Eric glanced at him, then to Lardo, then back at him. “What happened? Bad dream?”

“I need to call her.”

“What? Bitty, is this such a good idea?”

“Maybe she’ll say she’s sorry,” Bitty breathed. He wanted to move but his wrists were held captive by Shitty’s one hand. “I need to know that she wouldn’t hit me. She wouldn’t--the rolling pin thing, that was, fuck, that was just a mistake. She wouldn’t, Shitty, she wouldn’t and I-I-I-I can’t keep believing she would.”

“Rolling pin?” Shitt asked, confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did your mom try hitting you with a rolling pin?”

Lardo finally stepped in. “We’ll let you call her in the morning, okay? Right now, you need to rinse your mouth and get some sleep.”

Bitty shook his head. “Please, please let me call.”

They didn’t let him call. Instead, they forced him to rinse out his mouth, and they tucked him in bed with them. The pressure of people was nice, he would have to admit. Bitty stared at the ceiling, invisible in the dark, until he drifted back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

///

“I guess he doesn’t have much to do now, does he?” one female host asked, holding her mug of coffee in her hands tightly. “I mean, he can’t exactly dance, and that’s a key component on Broadway.”

“He went after the role of Fiyero, but I mean, with his leg broken, they should have casted him as Nessa!” another laughed, causing the other ladies to chorus in with her. “For the audience members that aren’t familiar with the musical Wicked, Nessa is a character bound to a wheelchair.”

“But of all places,” a third female host said, causally brushing one of her curls past her shoulder, “why a farmer’s market? Does watermelon help broken bones? I just…”

She faded out as the audience laughed. The first host nodded, and continued with the segment. “And he was seen with a boy. Jack Zimmermann has come out since his time being a hockey player and since he started with the movies, but had yet to step out with a partner. This is huge, is Jack off the market for the first time in forever?”

“You make a good point, Emily, but I’m afraid we’ll have to talk about that, when we come back from break.” The girls smiled as the program faded into a commercial.

Jack groaned, turning the TV off and grabbing the smoothie he’d made this morning. (He’d made another one for Eric, who had yet to show up. Jack thought he did a pretty good job.) But right now, he wished he’d never turned on that damn television. It was only a matter of time before everyone else had their say on such things.


	6. somewhere in between who I used to be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude. I finished all the available episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and I feel like my life is over. But that's fine, I guess.
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments. You guys are the best. Here's another chapter, so enjoy!
> 
> PS, I see PVRIS in a week and I am soooooo excited. I get to meet them. I'm gonna die ahhhh!

Jack didn’t like waiting around for Bitty. He sat anxiously on the couch, waiting for a knock at the door. He made a smoothie for him, he was ready to talk about plants, maybe growing low maintenance flowers or leafy-things, he has no clue, or even maybe even basil and parsley. Bitty would like that, right? After two hours of waiting, he grew impatient, and he grabbed the other smoothie out of the fridge, and marched his way over to Shitty and Lardo’s apartment.

Lardo let him in, but the atmosphere was far too intense once he stepped through the door. Shitty stood against the wall near the small hallway, biting his thumbnail anxiously, and Lardo didn’t look any calmer. They could hear the voice rising from a few rooms away.

“No, momma--yes! I will call you that! Please, listen to me…” His voice trailed off again, his teeth nibbling at his lip in discomfort. There was a muffled yelling sound coming from the phone, and Jack knew it couldn’t be good.

Lardo sighed. “He’s been calling her nonstop for an hour now. He’s so hell-bent on this.”

Eric wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, pacing anxiously around the hall. “I love you, I would never do anything to hurt you, but--don’t say that. Please, don’t. I--”

Shitty glanced over at Jack. “Hey. Sorry if the noise bothered you, we told him not to call,” he said quietly. He, for once, didn’t know what to do. Shitty usually always had a plan, but to see him standing aside and telling this happen, it was shocking. 

“No, it wasn’t the noise,” Jack mumbled back, which was true. He could only hear the TV and the sound of everyone dissecting the photos of him in public with Bitty. “I was wondering why Eric hadn’t come over yet.”

“You saw me in public with another man,” Eric repeated in disbelief, throwing his free hand into the air and smiling hysterically. “I didn’t do anything with him. That’s Jack, he’s my neighbor, and all we were doing was shopping...no...n-momma, how on earth is helping a man pick out fruit flirtatious?” Eric let his hands curl angrily into his hair. “I didn’t think you’d still be angry with me. Momma, please, let’s just--”

Eric’s face fell. A few moments later, he let his hand fall from his ear, staring blankly at his phone. “She hung up on me,” he announced--to who? To the small audience he accumulated? To himself? He gave a short, cruel, mocking laugh. “Well, at least she got to call me a faggot before she did. Good for her. Oh, and it turns out, she did mean to hit me with that rolling pin, and she said she’d do it again if I ever show my face down there.”

No one knew what to say. Eric wiped a few tears away and let his phone fall to the ground. He didn’t need it. Not one bit. “I need a drink.”

“Bitty, dude,” Shitty began cautiously, “it’s literally five minutes past noon. I don’t think you need a drink.”

“I think we all need a drink.”

“Again, it’s noon, so… hard pass.”

Bitty shrugged. “Then I’ll just take the bottle to bed with me. Good night. I’ll try again tomorrow morning.

And that was why Bitty, bless his soul, took what was rest of the 2010 Guigal La Landonne Cote-Rotie, and he wasn’t seen until the following morning. 

///

Jack was nursing his black eye when his father walked into the bathroom. There was no hiding the bruise, and since it was very unlikely that he got the bruise during a game or practice, he braced himself for the worst. He expected Bob to yell for Alicia and to make a huge deal out of it. Jack didn’t think he could handle that, and he let his fingers curl around the sink.

Bob took one look at the angry, purple ring around his eye and he carefully closed the bathroom door. The three seconds it took for Bob to walk towards the tub and sit on the edge dragged on, seemingly an eternity of panic, but once it happened, the air grew stiff and filled with fear. Bob folded his hands and let his gaze fall to the floor. “You’re not going to lie to me and say it was hockey related, are you? Because I know those kids know better than to mess with you. They wouldn’t even get as far as to knock your helmet off.”

Jack didn’t acknowledge that. “Nothing happened. It’s… it’s nothing.”

“Jack, you’re hiding from us to nurse a damn black eye. It looks bad, so I know damn well it wasn’t an accident, either.”

So many words were building up in the back of his throat, but fear held them down. “It’s nothing, papa. Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“No,” Bob said sternly. We can’t. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Because I don’t want to tell you.” Anger was rising in Jack. He didn’t want to talk about anything, he didn’t want to let his parents into this mess. He was so tired, but he’d be damned to ask his parents for help.

“Jack, you can’t just spiral like this,” Bob huffed. “Your mother and I are worried. What’s going on?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Dammit, Jack, it obviously does--”

“Kent hit me after a fight because I didn’t want to have sex with him,” Jack said. “There. Are you happy, papa? Your boy’s a fucking faggot, congratulations. A weak one at that. I’m dating Kent and I fucked up. That’s what the bruise is for, it’s because I’m a horrible boyfriend, and I might as well let you give me another black eye, so that way I have one for being a horrible son, too!”

“What has gotten into you?” Bob demanded, blinking away tears. “Jack, do you think I’d hate you just because you’re dating a boy?”

Jack threw the damp washcloth down, letting it hit the porcelain with a splat. “I’m not stupid. I know what you think.”

“You think you know, but you’re wrong,” Bob told him. “Jack, you’re my pride and joy. I understand you’re worried, but I don’t understand where this is coming from.”

“All my life you’ve been worried that I’d be gay. You’re afraid of it, aren’t you? You’re terrified of having a gay son.”

“That’s not--”

“I’m supposed to turn into you, everyone says so! But how the fuck am I supposed--”

“Language!”

“--to be as great as you are when I’m a fag, huh?”

“Stop saying that fucking word!” Bob yelled. “Dammit, Jack, I love you. This doesn’t change a thing. You need to stop for just a minute and think about everything.”

Jack didn’t look at him. He was too angry, every bottled emotion and thought pouring out of him like crazy. “I was six. You were mad at me for hugging another boy. You said that word--you were terrified I’d be that word. And I tried so hard not to be, papa, I really did. I like girls, don’t get me wrong, but Kent… I think I love him. He tells me he loves me and that’s enough, that’s all I need, I’m… I’m trying so hard to be happy, but everyone else has opinions of what my happiness should look like.”

Bob took a sharp breath, and it echoed off the walls and faltered into the silence. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m really sorry I said that, and I’m sorry I made you think that for all these years. And I love you, I’m so happy you told me the truth. But… I don’t want you seeing Kent anymore.”

“What?” Jack finally turned to look at him, face twisted in something confused like rage--and shock. “I thought you said--”

“He hit you hard enough to leave an ugly bruise,” Bob said. “Don’t settle for anyone that’s going to hit you, Jack. Has it happened before?”

No. That was the first time. Jack shook his head and sighed. “I’m not breaking up with him. It was an accident, he’d never hurt me.”

Oh, Jack was so very wrong.

Just three days later, Kent had gotten mad when Jack wouldn’t look at him during an argument, and he’d grabbed Jack by his hair. It ended in tears on both sides, and Jack snuggled up in his lap, forgiving anything and everything. 

Jack wasn’t too keen on remembering this, but with the apartment empty and thoughts given time to roam, there was no stopping it. He stared at the ceiling, breathing slow, until he heard his door creak. His head shot up to see Bitty peeking through, sliding into the room slowly. “Are you asleep?” he whispered.

“No,” Jack whispered back. “You can come in.”

Bitty let himself in and closed the door quietly. “Bad day?”

“Something like that.”

Bitty sat on the edge of the bed, just as Alicia did when Jack woke up in the hospital. He tried not to cringe as he let himself settle back down comfortably. His thoughts were too loud, too overpowering. The phantom burn roared in his throat, he thought of Kenny yelling, trying to break into his room, he thought of the look on his face as security asked him if he could stay, and the look when Jack told him he didn’t know him and--

Bitty was soft. Quiet. Gentle. His voice spoke softly, but just loud enough to force all of Jack’s thoughts to come to a halt. “I’m sorry for bailing on you yesterday.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not, though. I just left you alone. That’s mean. I hope I don’t get fired.”

“I don’t think you could ever get fired,” Jack said honestly. “My parents like you too much. They might give you another job offer, though. Personal chef or something like that. They’d sooner lock you up than let you go.”

Bitty gave a small laugh. “That’s good. Maybe then I could pay off my loans.”

Jack sighed, content with how things were at that moment. He could hear the clock ticking on the wall, the running air conditioner, and Bitty’s steady breathing. Life was easy.

“So,” Eric continued, “what do you want to do today?”

“Maybe I’ll just sleep all day,” Jack answered, turning his head to smile at Eric. “I’m sure you’re still feeling that wine from yesterday.”

“Fuck, Jack, I drank that bottle in ten minutes and I’m still suffering.”

“You chugged five-hundred dollar wine in ten minutes?” Jack laughed. “You’re something else.”

“That was five hundred dollars?” Eric’s eyes grew wide in shock. “Oh my God, Jack, why did you let me do that?”

“I’ve done worse. I once destroyed a bottle of...cheval blanc, I think it was? I don’t know, it was from the forties. Extremely rare. I drank the entire thing myself,” Jack told him, still smiling. “My parents were shocked I didn’t even savor it. I just drank it because I couldn’t get the key to the liquor cabinet and they’d left the wine sitting out. Turns out the wine cost over one-hundred thousand dollars.”

“I don’t feel too bad now,” Bitty teased. “Thousands of dollars in wine. How long did it take you to even finish it?”

“Maybe an hour, tops,” he answered. “I was younger then. Pretty stupid, too.” Jack didn’t say, but he remembered the exact context of how that night went down. He was mad at Kent. Kent was mad at him. Jack took another anxiety pill, drank so much wine, got an angry phone call from Kent, took two more pills, and chugged more wine. Terrible mix, and and even more terrible waste of expensive wine, but his parents just thought it was him just… being rebellious. They didn’t know about the fight or the pills, and they had a fun time laughing about “Jack’s first hangover” the next day. If only they knew…

“So, Mr. Zimmermann, are you actually going to sleep all day?” Eric asked. “You don’t seem like the type to waste a day. Maybe you should sleep all day. I’m sure your mother would make me employee of the month if I could get you to do that.”

“Ha-ha,” Jack muttered. “My entire body feels tired.”

“Then sleep.”

“But we have those cherries in the fridge.”

“They’ll last another day.” Eric climbed over Jack and settled into the unused part of the bed, sprawled out on his back. “We’ll do that tart tomorrow. Or maybe tonight. Depends on how long you actually sleep.”

“And you’re staying?”

“What else am I getting paid for? Unless you don’t want me here, I understand, I’m sorry--”

“No! No, I--the company’s nice. You can stay.”

Bitty smiled and gave Jack a little pat on the arm. “Alright. Get some rest. Maybe if you sleep well enough your leg will heal faster.”

Though Jack snorted and dismissed the comment, he secretly wished it could be true.

///

Eric was pressed against the closet door until his shoulder blades began to hurt. He yelled out, raising his foot to kick someone away from him, but it did nothing. Another fist flew into his face, another hand pulled at his hair, and another foot landed in his ribs.

He screamed. Blood dripped from his nose and he screamed out, begging them to stop, begging them to leave him alone, but no one listened. The door behind him opened and Eric fell backwards into the dark. “Get away from me!” little Eric cried, wiping his bloodied nose with the back of his hand. 

“As you wish,” another boy answered before closing the door and locking it.

Eric scrambled to his feet, struggling to navigate through the dark. His fumbling hands finally found the door and pulled at the door handle. Locked. There was no lock on his side, either. He was trapped. “Guys? Let me out! This isn’t funny, let me out! I want to go home!”

“Bye, baby Bittle!”

Eric walked around slowly, hands desperately searching the walls for a light switch. Nothing. He prayed to find a string hanging from the ceiling before he tripped over anything. He was lucky enough to find the string; he pulled it, and a dim light flickered before remaining steady. He’d never felt so alone in his life before. Slowly, he viewed his surroundings. No food, but at least there was a wash sink in the corner for water. Accepting defeating--yes, that was it, there was no more fight in the boy--he lowered himself to the ground and listened, hopeful, for a pair of footsteps and a possible savior.

The boys were cruel, though, and they didn’t care that it was a Friday afternoon. They let him stay in that closet, they let him rot, and they didn’t tell a damn soul. Eric didn’t know how much time had passed, but judging by the intense pain in his gut, he assumed it was a while.

Sunday morning was his day. An overnight janitor opened the closet to find the missing Bittle kid lying on the floor emotionless and still. Eric didn’t have the energy to move. His limbs were stiff from lying there so long, and the lack of food didn’t help either.

The janitor took off running. “I found him! Someone call the police, someone call the Bittles, I found Eric! I found Eric Bittle!”

Even now, Eric could imagine what his life would have been like if he’d come out before the closet situation. His momma wouldn’t have even cared that he was gone. He could have died in that closet, and she would not have cared.

///

There were routines put into place, but they weren’t forced. It was easy, natural even. Jack woke up to the smell of pancakes, and he relished in the smell. He rolled out of bed, brushed his teeth, made himself somewhat presentable, and found Eric at the stove attending to a wonderful breakfast. If you would have told Jack one month ago that he could have been this happy, he wouldn’t have believed it. One month ago Jack was pouring himself a cup of coffee and letting himself get lost in his thoughts. Right now, the only thing Jack could think of were blueberry pancakes.

“I see the rest of the blueberries are being put to good use,” Jack commented, sitting at the island. “I thought you wanted to show me how to do scones?”

“Shoot! That’s right,” Bitty sighed. “We can always run to the farmer’s market after your doctor’s appointment.”

“I… have an appointment?”

“Good Lord, Mr. Zimmermann, you’re lucky I’m here to remember these things,” Eric teased. “Yes. At noon you have an appointment. Did you want to go to the market afterwards? If you’re not feeling up to it, that’s fine,” he said as he flipped the pancakes on to a plate. “You seemed excited for those scones, though.”

Jack shrugged, though Bitty couldn’t see. “That’s fine. My parents are thinking of coming down to visit again, I might as well have scone-knowledge to impress them with. They might even have to give you a raise.”

“Ha-ha.” Eric turned to set the plate of pancakes on the island, along with a plate of sausage links. “We’re out of syrup, just so you know.”

“Really funny, Bitty.”

“No, I’m serious. We eat a lot of pancakes. There’s no more syrup. I mean, there’s the aunt jemima I bought by accident--”

“No.”

“--but we’re out of the real stuff. You’re going to have to eat your blueberry pancakes without.”

Jack groaned. “How did we run out? It’s not like we eat pancakes every day!”

Eric rolled his eyes. “We ate pancakes six times last week.”

“No we...oh, yes, we did. How do I keep forgetting to put it on the shopping list?” Jack took a piece of sausage off of the plate and took a bite. “Man. I really need to stop eating pancakes.” And he did, he really did. His body wasn’t looking as well as it should have. He used to look so good, slim with just the right about of muscle, putting every other movie star to shame. He could feel the little bump of fat under his chin, barely there but noticeable to preying eyes such as his. The media would flip to see Jack like this, with a no longer toned-tummy and a lack of muscle. 

“Or, we just need more syrup,” Bitty dismissed, sensing the self doubt building up in Jack. He was good at tearing apart any doubt Jack was feeling. Mr. and Mrs. Zimmermann gave him the task of hanging around with their son, and by God, he wasn’t going to mess this up. Not at all. He would fight all of Jack’s insecurities if it meant pleasing the Zimmermanns. “We can swing by later if you’d like.”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe we should hit the gym.”

“You’re not ready for that yet,” Bitty scolded. “Plus, you look great. I wish I could eat pancakes and still look at great as you.”

“You go to the gym, though.”

“First of all, your parents bought me a membership and I wasn’t going to be rude. Second, you’re injured and you look great. Don’t make me pour aunt jemima on these pancakes.”

///

Jack could put pressure on his leg now. It’d been long enough and the healing was almost through. He still had to wear his boot, though, and he hated it. The crutches were long forgotten, and Eric relished in the fact that Jack could do things without hobbling as much, because Jack finally felt human again.

“This is amazing,” Jack said as they walked through the store. He was still reduced to taking smaller, awkward steps because of the boot, but he had so much more freedom, it seemed. “I can grab things without falling on my face. I can take things out of the cart and you can’t stop me. Wait--I could put things in the cart and you can’t stop me!”

Bitty rolled his eyes. “You’re having way too much fun.”

“Not yet.” Jack turned, a huge smile plastered on his face. “Let’s race.”

“What? Jack, no--”

“C’mon! I can walk without crutches now! I’ve come a long way since we’ve first met. I’ve waited a month to do cart racing in this grocery store with you.”

Eric ignored the way his heart skipped a beat. “Once the boot comes off, we can race.”

“But the doctor said…”

Bitty grabbed a bag of rice from the shelf. “The doctor did not say you could race carts. Keep it up and I’ll make you sit in the cart and I’ll push you around the store.”

Jack groaned playfully, throwing a box of linguine in the cart and trailing behind him. “You’re no fun. Who are you, my mom, now?”

Before Bittle could respond, there was a swarm of people with phones and cameras. Not exactly a swarm to Bitty, but to Jack, these four people were enough to cause the hair on his arms to prickle and rise for a moment. One of the girls clicked a picture and gave a squeal. “Eric Bittle! I watch your vlog! Your blueberry tartlet recipe was amazing, my grandmother loved them.”

“Can I get a picture with you for my mom?” another girl asked, adjusting the beanie on the top of her head. “We love your channel, it helped my mom cross something off her bucket list!”

“Shit, I am so sorry,” the first girl said. “I can delete the picture if you’d like, I didn’t even think about asking before I took it.”

“I told you guys this was a bad idea,” the tall, lanky boy mumbled, stuffing his hands further into his pockets as if he was trying to disappear. “He’s with his boyfriend, we’re probably ruining his day.”

The other girl, shorter and obviously an athletic person with the way everything about her screamed Nike, snorted. “Don’t be such a baby, Luke. We can just delete the picture. It’s not like we’re going to run out and tell the world we saw a couple in the pasta isle.”

“This just in,” the first girl said, pressing two fingers gently to her ear. “It seems that two dudes are shopping in the pasta isle.”

The beanie girl lifted a box of spaghetti to use as a microphone. “Yes, Manon, I’m reporting live from the scene. It started as a normal day in this store when eyewitnesses have reported there are two men, both cute and armed with comfy sweatpants, are out for a day of pasta shopping.”

Luke bit his lip and looked down, but the athletic girl rolled her eyes and pulled him to the front of the group. “Eric, this is my brother, Luke. You really inspired him to follow his dreams, and he’s currently going to a culinary school.”

Eric clasped his hands together. “Oh! That’s amazing, I’m so glad you’re doing what you love.”

“He even came out a few months ago!” she gushed. “You’ve really helped--”

“Leia, stop,” he mumbled, “he doesn’t want to hear all about it.”

Jack broke in, unable to help himself. “You’re named Luke and Leia? Really?”

Manon laughed. “Their parents’ first date was seeing Star Wars in theatres. Can’t remember which movie, but hey, we got the Skywalkers over here regardless.”

“Jack loves the Star Wars movies,” Eric said. “We started watching them since he couldn’t do much with his leg at the time. Instantly loved them. Guess it’s a nerd thing.”

“You would know,” Jack muttered.

Leia pulled out her phone. “Could Luke get a picture with you?”

“I could take the picture if you wanted a group shot,” Jack offered. “I’m no photographer, but I’ll do my best.”

The small group agreed, and they all eagerly crowded around Bitty for a photo. They were all smiles, wider than the moon, ear to ear and Bitty was--fuck, he was absolutely glowing. Jack snapped the picture, the kids were delighted, and they departed soon after with a story for their parents. It wasn’t until Eric turned to continue pushing the cart that Jack realized they never corrected the group when they assumed Jack and Eric were dating.


End file.
